


Silver for Monsters

by crimsonherbarium



Series: Shattered Silver [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Lambert, Blood and Gore, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Following the Thread, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Lambert, Plot Centric, Pre-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Slash, Slow Burn, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Witcher Contracts, some smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-05-02 01:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 108,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14533479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonherbarium/pseuds/crimsonherbarium
Summary: Lambert has been walking the Path for half a century. Wraiths, drowners, ghouls--another day, another shit contract for shit pay in some shit village for some ungrateful bastard.That is, until he accepts a lucrative contract in Ellander and gets more than he bargained for. The Continent proves to be a dangerous place as Lambert sets out with Aiden, a witcher from the School of the Cat.Monsters, war, love, sex, angst, revenge, silver, and steel. Lambert must fight to leave the Path before it destroys him.(Begins prior to Wild Hunt and will continue through the events of Following the Thread and the Battle of Kaer Morhen. Obvious spoilers for TW3.)





	1. Prologue

Lambert grimaced. He sheathed his blade, used his teeth to pull the glove from his right hand, and probed the wound on his shoulder with his fingertips. It was deep, much too deep to ignore. Blood flowed freely from the ragged edges of his torn flesh and dripped down the leather of his armor. He sighed and cursed loudly. The wound wasn’t the problem; with his accelerated witcher’s metabolism, that would heal quickly. The armor, on the other hand--that required a visit to a craftsman. Unfortunately, he’d managed to piss off just about every armorer worth his salt in the gods-forsaken cesspit of human shit and drowners that was Velen. 

With his free hand, he dug around in his pack for his potion stock. There wasn’t much left: a couple vials of Cat, one of Thunderbolt, and three empty ones which used to contain Swallow. Lambert cursed again and turned the bag over, dumping its contents out onto the soggy grass. There it was--White Raffard’s Decoction. There were only a few drops left, but it was enough for his purposes. He pulled the cork from the vial with his teeth and downed its contents. Immediately, the flow of blood from his wound slowed. 

He rotated his shoulder slowly in a circle, testing its range of motion. The skin around the edges of the gash was already beginning to mend. Satisfied, Lambert gathered his supplies and put them back into his bag. 

He turned to face his kill. The cockatrice had been a tough bastard and had given almost as good as it got, but in the end Lambert had come out on top. He pulled the large, sharp knife from his belt and severed the beast’s head with skill and precision. This he secured to his saddle with the iron hook and frayed rope he kept for the purpose. 

Time to get paid.

Lambert rode into the small village at dusk. He made a point of ignoring the sow-faced peasant woman who spat in his direction as he passed on his horse, and the two small children who pointed and stared at the bloody cockatrice head that hung from his saddle. The village ealdorman was in the same place Lambert had left him the previous morning, tending the cooking fire outside his hut. 

The witcher pulled up on the horse’s reigns and dismounted with inhuman agility. Pulling the monster trophy from its hook, he tossed it unceremoniously at the ealdorman’s feet and leaned back against the fence. The old man looked at the beast’s head with narrowed eyes, and then glanced up at Lambert. 

The witcher wasn’t a terribly tall or muscular man, but the glint of the two swords on his back and the glow of his yellow cat eyes in the low light conveyed a clear message as he glared back at the old man: don’t fuck with me. 

After a few moments, the ealdorman closed his eyes and nodded. 

“Indeed, ‘twas a job well done. Thank ye, master witcher. If we’d have lost any more cows this year we’d have been done for. Your pay, as agreed.” He handed Lambert a pouch of coin and went back to tending his fire. 

Lambert weighed the pouch carefully in his hand. Satisfied, he nodded curtly at the ealdorman and returned to his horse, spurring her gently with his heel and heading back toward the main road. He had no desire to spend the night in this swamp, and besides--his armor needed repair. If he rode through the night he might reach Novigrad by morning, and there was an elven armorsmith in Farcorners who still tolerated him. The thought of a hot meal, a decent bed, and a shapely woman to warm it wasn’t bad either. 

With these promises to himself in his head, Lambert rode hard to the north, navigating by the light of the moon as it rose before him.


	2. Somewhere in Ellander

Lambert squinted, trying to read the messages on the notice board. The mid-afternoon sun had rendered the pieces of parchment a blinding white. Add that to the dose of Cat that still hadn’t worn off from the previous night, and he was left with a massive fucking headache. Irritated, he snatched the paper, tearing it in the process. He retreated to the shade of a nearby tree to read it.

_Wanted: a mage or other persons skilled in spellcraft to lift a terrible curse. A stipend for lodgings and food shall be provided, along with a sum of 500 crowns for the completed job. Must not suffer from claustrophobia.  
-Arnaud_

Five hundred crowns? Lambert raised his eyebrows. That was a hefty sum for a contract. Either its writer had quite a bit of coin to waste, or this job was more dangerous than it appeared on the surface. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to get the details.

It took the rest of the day and most of the next to locate Arnaud. The man was apparently a bit of a recluse, and no one could tell Lambert much about him, not even the family who lived in the house next door. All he knew was that the man had arrived in town some four months prior and mostly kept to himself. He lived in a townhouse on the main square, modest in size but well-kept. Even with his view mostly obscured by a brick wall, Lambert could tell that the garden was tended to meticulously. Not a single leaf was out of place. He banged on the door.

No answer. Lambert scanned the upper levels. There--on the third story, the faintest glow of candlelight emanating from a window. He picked up a small stone from the ground and threw it at the glass. It bounced off with a sharp plink. 

He waited for a moment. Damn, still nothing. He selected another stone, holding it carefully between his thumb and forefinger as he focused his intention. He used the Aard sign to propel the stone with a much greater force toward the offending window. 

It worked, perhaps a little too well. The stone flew clear through the glass, leaving a small hole where it had broken through the pane. With his sensitive ears, Lambert heard the stone knock over a metal goblet before finally hitting something fleshy with a soft thud, which was followed by a yelp of pain. He smirked.

The damaged window swung open. In it stood a man with greying hair and a nervous expression. He appeared to be in his forties and was wearing fine, brightly colored clothing. His eyes made darting glances around the square as he scanned for his assailant. He spotted Lambert and squinted down at him.

“Yes, yes, what do you want?” The man said in a clipped tone, his voice cracking as he spoke. 

“You Arnaud? Here about the contract.” Lambert said, gesturing at the parchment in his hand. “You know, next time you’re trying to hire someone it might be helpful if you put down how to find you. Wouldn’t hurt to answer the damned door either. Wasted an entire day trying to track you down.”

“I don’t expect you to understand, sir, but a man in my position can never be too careful. May I ask who calls?” Arnaud was still squinting down at the street below. Lambert forgot sometimes that others couldn’t see the way he could. If the man could make him out at all, the two swords at his back should have made things obvious.

“I’m a witcher. You wanted a curse lifted, right? Well, let me in so we can talk. It’s wet out here and I’m freezing my dick off.” 

The man nodded in assent. “Fine. I shall be down momentarily. Please wait.”

Lambert leaned against the wall of the house by the door and waited. He ran a gloved hand through his short dark hair, slicking it back. It was wet through from the unexpected rain shower. Several minutes passed before he heard the sound of Arnaud at the door. He counted no less than seven locks being undone before it finally opened. 

He pushed past Arnaud, eager to get out of the damp. The interior of the house was dark, but every bit as organized and perfect as the outside. Arnaud stumbled a bit, but quickly recovered and busied himself relocking all of the chains and deadbolts. His task completed, he gestured for Lambert to follow him and ascended the stairs.

A few moments later, he found himself in a small attic study. Books were stacked haphazardly to the ceiling all over, and the cramped desk was littered with parchment and spattered with ink blots. The room was lit by the soft glow of a single candle, and the fading light that filtered in through a single window--the one Lambert had damaged just minutes before. He could see that droplets of water were already beginning to seep through the crack in the glass. Below the windowsill he spotted the goblet he had knocked over. It had spilled wine everywhere, and in his haste Arnaud must have stepped in it. By now he’d probably tracked Toussaint Red all over his pristine house. That wasn’t Lambert’s problem, though. He wasn’t in the habit of feeling sorry about shit like that.

Arnaud had apparently noticed Lambert looking at the mess. “Was it really necessary to break the window?” He asked, sighing wearily. “I shall have to order new glass, and I’m certain it will come at great expense.”

Lambert shrugged. “You weren’t answering your door. Look, I’m just here for the contract, so why don’t you tell me what or who got cursed and what you expect me to do about it?”

“Very well.” Arnaud sat at the desk. “I gather that from my house and the reward on the notice that you have figured out that I am not unwealthy.” 

“No shit.” Lambert waved his hand flippantly. “Get to the point.”

Arnaud shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable. “My father was a very rich man. Rich enough that, with even half his fortune in my coffers, I would never have to work another day in my life. When he died of the Catriona several years ago, my younger brother Percival and I were each to receive half of his estate as our inheritance. However, I had a falling-out with the old man just before his death, and he wrote me out of his will, leaving everything to my brother.”

Lambert was growing impatient. “I didn’t ask for your life’s story, and I don’t see what this has to do with either a curse or a monster.”

“I was getting to that, if you’ll be patient. You see, my wife was a vile and greedy woman. And, unbeknownst to me, she was something of a magician. She demanded that my brother give us what should rightfully have been mine--the family home, and half of the coin--but he refused. He called her a vicious ogre and told her that there was no place for either her or me in his life. And so she said, ‘I’ll show you an ogre...’”

“And she turned him into an ogre, I’m guessing? Real fuckin’ subtle, but you have to admire her tenacity. So where is he now?” 

Arnaud sighed. “I’m not exactly sure. There is a cave system a few miles outside the city, near the foothills of Mahakam. I think he’s likely there, but I cannot tell you his exact location. I’d imagine that you will be able to track him down quite easily, though.”

“Fine. I can find him, but that’s not the hard part. Curses aren’t always easy to lift, especially the ones cast out of pure spite. I need to know the words used to cast it, and to get those, I need to talk to your wife. Where is she?”

“That’s quite impossible, I’m afraid,” Arnaud said, rubbing his forehead. “She died a few months back. It was entirely unrelated, a bad case of food poisoning. I’m ashamed to say I don’t miss her.”

Lambert cursed. “Well, this is going to be next to impossible to do without her help. I gotta ask--why do you even want to lift the curse to begin with? Seems like you and your brother weren’t exactly the best of friends.”

“No, but he’s the only family I have left. I’ve come to realize since my wife passed that the gold should never have been that important. I wish to apologize, to make amends. Perhaps, in time, he shall forgive me too.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Lambert crossed his arms. “Look, this is going to be damn difficult, if not impossible. I’ll try my best, but even if I do manage to lift the curse he may not be the same man he was before.”

Arnaud nodded. “I’m sure your best will be more than adequate.”

“Fine. I’ll head for the foothills at first light, try to locate him. I’ll let you know if I find anything.” Lambert turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. Arnaud stopped him at the door.

“One last thing, witcher: Percival must not come to any harm. If he is killed, you will not receive even one crown.” He was staring at Lambert intently, the look in his eyes impressing the gravity of this last request. Lambert nodded and left the stuffy attic room, exiting to the rainy street below.

 

~~~~~~

 

The next morning, Lambert set out for the foothills in search of the caves Arnaud had described. He was sure they would prove difficult to locate, but luck was on his side and he discovered an overturned cart not far off the main road only two hours’ ride from the city.

The cart absolutely decimated. Its wheels had been crushed to splinters, and the body of it appeared to have been torn apart by something enormous. The goods it had been transporting were scattered all over the place. Lambert found its unfortunate occupants crushed underneath a large boulder nearby. The gruesome attack certainly appeared to have been carried out by some sort of ogroid.

He was able to make out some tracks leading away from the gruesome scene. Humanoid, but six times too large. This was shaping up to be an easier job than expected. He mounted his horse and followed.

The journey took him further away than he had expected, about four hours’ ride total away from the city of Ellander. Lambert was sure that the ogre could cover that distance in far less time, though. Its stride was massive. He reached the entrance to the caves in the early afternoon; sure enough, the ogre’s tracks led right inside. He considered exploring the lair, but decided it was too risky. After all, he didn’t know if the ogre was home, and there was a good chance it was sapient. Venturing into its lair unprepared would be very different from investigating a sirens’ nest before clearing it out to decide how many bombs he would need. Better to regroup and return in the morning. 

As he made his way back to his horse, something caught his eye. Two trails of footprints in the dirt; a single person entering the cave and coming back out some time later. They looked fairly fresh, too. He looked around, focusing intently so as to use his witcher’s senses to the fullest, but he sensed nothing. Strange, no one but him should have had any reason to be there at all, let alone any reason to go into the lair itself. He had the strange sensation that he was being watched, but it passed.

He made a mental note of the cave’s location and mounted his mare, heading back toward the city.

~~~~~~

He arrived back in Ellander at dusk. The last rays of golden sun were painting the stone walls and belfries of the city as he stood outside Arnaud’s house on the square. He knocked on the front door--no answer. 

Lambert sighed in exasperation. This shit again? 

“Hey Arnaud!” He yelled at the third-story window. “Let me in, you bastard!”

“What’s that?” Arnaud poked his head out and eyed Lambert. “What do you need?”

“Now, Arnaud! Or I swear I’ll break it the rest of the way!” He held up a fist-sized rock to show the man he meant business. Arnaud’s shoulders sagged. 

“Fine! Be patient, I’m coming.” 

Lambert again had to wait several minutes for the man to make his way down to street level and unlock his thousand locks. By the time he got inside the house, he was fairly annoyed.

“Look, I’m only here because we need to talk about the contract. First of all, I’ve located the ogre--”

“Percival!” Arnaud interjected. “His name is Percival.”

Lambert cleared his throat in annoyance. “Arnaud, I’m way too tired for this shit. Anyways, he’s right where you said he would be. Found a merchant’s cart destroyed, and the merchants murdered. Followed his tracks from there back to the caves. I didn’t get much of a look around, but I’m going back tomorrow. I need something from you first, though.”

“Name it!” Arnaud gestured broadly around him, clearly eager to please. 

“Since I can’t talk to your wife, I need to try to find some other way to lift the curse. A meaningful object would be useful there. Something like a family heirloom, maybe something that belonged to your father?”

Arnaud’s face fell. “I have nothing of the sort. As I told you, Percival received all in the will. Our father never spoke my name again after we had our argument.”

“Fine. Listen, Arnaud--I can’t lift the curse without either the words used to cast it or a significant object. If you don’t have either of those, I can’t help you. So it looks like we’re done here.”

“You’re...leaving?” Arnaud looked shocked. “I thought witchers would do anything for the right amount of coin!”

Lambert made no attempt to hide his irritation. “I'm not going to be your servant just because you nailed a piece of parchment to a board. Think of me as a skilled tradesman. Without my tools, I can’t work. Asking me to lift the curse without the right tools is about as good as asking the blacksmith to make you a sword without a hammer. It’s not going to fucking work. So either wrack your brains and come up with something, or I’m out of here.” He crossed his arms and waited.

Unexpectedly, Arnaud’s eyes lit up. “The feather!” He shouted. Lambert raised an eyebrow. Arnaud scrambled to the other side of the room, knocking over a stack of books in the process. He dug frantically through a dusty trunk that had been shoved into the corner of the room until he found what he was looking for, holding it aloft triumphantly. It was a single griffin feather, old and damaged from bouncing around the trunk with many other items for years. He handed it to Lambert.

“When we were children, Percival and I often played in the fields near the family estate. One day, I strayed too far and ended up next to a griffin’s nest. Fortunately for me, it wasn’t home at the time. Percival came and found me, and made me come home with him. But I did take this feather, so I could study it later. When our father found it and asked how it came to be in my possession, he protected me by saying he had gone to the griffin’s nest by himself to get it. He was punished, and our father hired a witcher to kill the griffin. I’ve never forgotten him standing up for me. I know it probably sounds stupid, and it was so long ago, but it’s the best I’ve got.” He offered Lambert the feather.

Lambert took it and sighed, turning it over in his hands. “Not a lot to go on, but I can try. I’ll head back out at first light.”

“Might I come with you?” Arnaud pleaded. “I desperately want to see him. I need to apologize for what I’ve done.”

Lambert shook his head. “Not a chance in hell. This is dangerous. Definitely not safe for the likes of you. Might not be safe for me either. Having you around will just hinder me, and if I’m trying to protect you, then I won’t be able to focus on lifting the curse. Stay at home, and if I’m successful, I’ll bring your brother straight here. Do you understand?”

Arnaud looked deeply saddened, but he nodded. “I understand. Thank you, witcher.”

“Thank me if and when I manage to pull this off. I’ll be back.” Lambert left the house, noticing on his way out that Arnaud had already scrubbed the wine stains out of the floor. 

~~~~~~

Though in a seedy neighborhood, the tavern was warm and inviting. The scent of tobacco smoke and roasted chicken hung thickly in the air. Feeling restored after sleeping for a few hours in his rented room, Lambert made quick work of his meal. He leaned back on the bench, resting his back against the wall behind him. The beer in his mug was dark and bitter, and the warmth of the alcohol was welcome in his belly. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking advantage of his sensitive hearing to feel out his surroundings.

The cacophony of sounds slowly resolved into a clear picture made up of many small pieces. The dwarves at the next table, yelling excitedly over a particularly good round of Gwent. The fire hissing as fat dripped into it from the chickens cooking on the spit. Mice scurrying around the cellar. Children playing in the street. Bells tolling at the temple of Melitele outside the city. The shrill cry of a colicky infant in a building nearby, and the mother softly shushing it. The creak of wooden floorboards as the serving girl delivered beer to another table. Drowners in the sewer below. Ellander.

While the city certainly wasn’t home to Lambert, it had a comforting familiarity to it. Since the fall of Temeria, he had been coming to Ellander whenever he was in need of a particularly skilled craftsman, to sell scavenged items, and to feel the companionship that came from spending time amongst humans. While Eskel and Geralt seemed content to walk the path alone, he wasn’t like his brothers. He needed to spend time near warm bodies that weren’t in the process of being chewed on by necrophages from time to time. 

Vizima used to be his port of call in this respect, but after being ravaged by war, the loss of its ruler, and the Catriona plague, the city had fallen into disarray. Brutal violence against nonhumans had become the norm, and as he wasn’t entirely human himself, he wasn’t welcome there. Novigrad was beginning to go the same way, but he had never liked the city much anyway. Things were calmer in Ellander, perhaps thanks to the influence of Nenneke and the other priestesses of Melitele. He wasn’t exactly welcomed with open arms, but he was at least tolerated.

An unfamiliar sound intruded on Lambert’s thoughts, causing his eyes to snap open immediately. Unnaturally light footsteps on the floor nearby. They were almost silent, but his witcher’s senses picked them out from the hum of activity around him immediately. The hair on the nape of his neck stood up slightly. With sharp eyes, he scanned the tavern for their owner.

There--in the corner, speaking with the innkeep--a man’s figure in a dark blue hood. The man was of average height, lithe and yet muscular. His movements were languid and precise, unnaturally fluid in comparison to the humans around him. He raised his hands to his hood and lowered it, revealing a head of chestnut curls, cropped short. Lambert slowly raised his hand to his medallion. As his fingers brushed against the metal, the man suddenly turned his head and locked eyes with him. Golden eyes, almost glowing, with slits for pupils.

A witcher.

Lambert returned the man’s gaze without blinking, careful not to let his face betray any expression. Not all of the witcher schools were on friendly terms with each other. A witcher from the school of the viper had framed Geralt for regicide just a few years back, and then tried to murder him not long after. Lambert wasn’t planning on being murdered anytime soon. He lowered his hand to rest on his thigh, contemplating drawing the stiletto that was hidden in his boot, but then thought better of it. If he were to tangle with another witcher, he certainly wouldn’t come out of it unscathed. Better to try to avoid conflict, for once. He made a fist with his hand under the table. _Don’t be an asshole._

The inkeep spoke to the chestnut-haired witcher and he turned away, passing a few crowns to the bald man. In return, the inkeep handed him a wooden mug. The witcher thanked him in a low voice. The words, though spoken softly, carried to Lambert’s ears over all the others in the room. His voice was like honey, warm and rich. 

Lambert made an effort to maintain his relaxed posture, continuing to lean back against the wall as the other witcher made his way toward the table.

“Greetings, wolf,” the man said as he sat on the bench opposite Lambert. His demeanor was far too casual, as if they had known each other a long time. His almond-shaped eyes gleamed in the light of the fire. He had a square jaw, and the lower half of his face was peppered with chestnut stubble. In the low light of the fire, Lambert could see an enormous scar; four deep claw marks that began under his right ear and curved down the front of his neck before disappearing under his armor. Unlike most of the other witchers Lambert knew, his face itself was free of scars. It was nearly impossible to tell how old he truly was just by appearance. Lambert could make out a handful of fine lines around his eyes, but that meant nothing.

He cast an eye over the man’s armor--light and flexible, built for someone who wanted to move quickly and silently. A medallion in the shape of a cat’s head hung around his neck. 

"Cat.” Lambert returned the greeting, giving a slight nod of the head in acknowledgement. “What brings you here?”

The other man shrugged. “To this particular establishment? Same thing as you, I expect. The...let’s say, ‘colorful,’ clientele means that I draw far less attention than I would at one of the taverns closer to the main square. It’s nice to not be noticed once in a while, wouldn’t you say?”

“Funny you should say that,” Lambert said, finding it hard to keep the aggression out of his voice, “Because it sure seems to me like you noticed me as soon as you walked in. I’m not a fan of sharing my table with strangers, so why don’t we cut to the chase and you just tell me who the hell you are?”

The chestnut-haired witcher seemed entirely unfazed by Lambert’s rudeness. He took a swig from his mug and set it down firmly on the table between them.

“Very well. My name is Aiden. Of the School of the Cat, but you’ve obviously already figured that part out for yourself. And you?”

“Lambert. You already know what school I’m from.”

Aiden waved his hand slightly to indicate that they should move on. “Enough of pointless introductions. Why has the Path brought you here? It must be something particularly interesting or lucrative if you came to Ellander. I never took you wolves for city dwellers.”

Lambert unconsciously rubbed his medallion. “Most of us aren’t.”

Aiden looked on expectantly. Lambert sighed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. 

“Some poor fucking sap hired me to lift the curse from an ogre.” Aiden laughed openly, throwing his head back. Lambert tried and failed to keep a twitch of annoyance from crossing his face. “What the hell is so funny?”

“Not so much funny as ironic. I’m here because my employer hired me to kill it. Apparently it’s been attacking trade caravans, and the losses are hurting his business.” 

Lambert chuckled. “Oh yeah, saw some of his handiwork earlier today. And I guess those were your tracks near the cave? Well, that’s a damn shame. Looks like one of us isn’t getting paid. And I’m sure as shit not planning on it being me.”

“Time will tell,” Aiden said, draining the last of his beer. “Truthfully, I’ve been inside his lair and I’m fairly certain the ogre is just that: an ogre. No curses, spells, or illusions involved. The man who holds your contract may well find himself deeply disappointed. Is there a partial rate for you if the beast is killed? We could always work together, split the coin.”

Lambert shook his head. “No. If it dies, I get nothing. Besides, I prefer to work alone.” He abandoned his drink and rose from the bench. “I’m going to get some rest. I’d say it was nice meeting you, but I don’t really care for competition. So long.”

With that, he left Aiden of the Cat School behind at the table and made for the door. It was only a few short hours until dawn, and it appeared that he now had a time limit to work with or the other witcher would kill the ogre and make off with his coin. He cursed under his breath and headed out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm working on finishing up the ogre arc now. I don't have a beta, so any spelling/grammar mistakes are entirely my own.


	3. The Foothills of Mahakam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ogre finally makes his appearance and Lambert gets more than he bargained for.

The morning sun rose with a vengeance, beating down strongly on Lambert as he spurred his horse onward. It was already a hot day, and he was sweating his balls off under his thick leather armor. He wiped his eyes with a gloved hand and scanned the horizon. He was still about thirty minutes’ ride from the caves he had visited yesterday. He had done his best to get a head start on the witcher he had met last night at the tavern, leaving shortly after their conversation and making camp about halfway to his destination so he could rest for a couple of hours before completing the contract. 

He cast a wary glance to the ground, at the trail of fresh hoofprints on the road. They were deep and clear, and obviously made very recently; he’d been following them for hours. He told himself that there was no way Aiden had gotten ahead of him. He would have noticed immediately if anyone had come near his campsite while he was meditating, and he had camped right by the road. Still, there wasn’t any other good explanation for the tracks he was following. It was too early in the day for any traders to be travelling the road, and there was nothing of interest for bandits to steal for miles around. Lambert clenched his teeth and dug in his heels.

It wasn’t long before he reached the caves. There was already a horse tied up outside the entrance; Lambert had been able to hear her about a mile down the path. The mare was wearing an expensive-looking saddle and whinnied nervously as he tied his own horse up beside her. She certainly didn’t look like a witcher’s horse. She had been groomed recently and her coat gleamed. Everything on her was a touch too fine to have been bought by someone who had to slay five drowners to buy a loaf of bread. He looked down. The footprints in the mud near her didn’t look like the ones he saw yesterday; they were were clumsy and deep, the gait just slightly uneven. 

Maybe Aiden hadn’t beaten him to the ogre after all. But someone else clearly had, so he needed to tread carefully. Lambert quickly downed a dose of Cat and entered the cave, taking care to keep his footsteps as light as possible. Within seconds, his surroundings brightened and and he was able to see every detail of the rock around him. He rubbed at his eyes briefly with the heels of his hands. The benefits of using Cat were undeniable, but he hated the way it robbed his vision of color. 

There was only one path open ahead of him. Lambert ducked into the tunnel and carefully made his way through the rocks. The floor had partially collapsed up ahead, and he had to climb along a narrow ledge and jump across a rather wide gap to continue. It looked as if whoever he was following had a rough time of it; they had barely made the jump without falling. He could see where their hands had scrabbled against the rock as they pulled themselves up.

Finally, after passing through to a larger area of the cavern, he could hear something up ahead. There was a great deal of thumping going on, along with very noisy and low-pitched breathing that must have been the ogre. He could hear something else too, a familiar voice. His stomach dropped--it wasn’t Aiden. Lambert took off at a sprint, his hand already reaching for his silver sword. 

He stopped short as he rounded the corner. It was much, much worse than he thought. The ogre was standing in the middle of the chamber, facing away from him. It must have been nine feet tall. It was ugly as shit and covered with greenish, loose-hanging skin. Between Lambert and the Ogre stood Arnaud, wearing the same ridiculous brightly-colored ensemble he’d been wearing the night before.

“Arnaud!” He hissed from the shadows. “Get your ass back here, you colossal fucking moron!”

Arnaud turned and shook his head. “Can’t you see? It’s Percival! He wouldn’t harm me. I must speak with him!”

Lambert ran through every curse word he knew inside his head as he assessed the situation. In a moment, the ogre was going to turn and notice Arnaud. He didn’t want to fight the thing, it was fucking massive and he wasn’t properly prepared. Vesemir had always said never to attempt to lift a curse without the appropriate oils and potions on hand in case things went south, but Lambert had long made a point of not listening to what Vesemir said. 

He went ahead and assumed Arnaud wasn’t coming to his senses on his own. He hit him with Axii, watching Arnaud stumble slightly as the spell took effect. Lambert willed him as hard as possible to go the fuck home, and it seemed to work; the aristocrat turned on his heel and began walking back toward the witcher.

As useful as Axii was, though, it also made people stupid and clumsy. Arnaud was almost out of the ogre’s eyesight when he caught his foot on a divot in the rock and fell, making a loud crack as he hit the cave floor. 

The ogre spun around, looking for the source of the noise, and immediately noticed Arnaud wriggling around on the ground like a worm. Lambert drew his silver sword, trying to come up with a plan. The ogre roared, the sound deafening in the small space, as it charged at Arnaud at full speed.

Lambert sprinted toward his employer, but failed to push Arnaud out of the way in time. The ogre picked up the small man with one massive hand and held him up to its face, examining him up close. The heat and stench of its breath seemed to be reviving the aristocrat, who began yelling and beating at the ogre’s arm as soon as he realized his situation.

“P-Percival!” He shrieked. “Let me go at once! I’m here to help you! Please!” His screams increased in pitch as the ogre squeezed him tighter with his hand, evidently displeased with the noise. It roared in Arnaud’s face, exposing enormous yellow teeth that still had pieces of rotting flesh stuck between them. Arnaud promptly pissed himself.

“Witcher! Help me!” He yelled, his eyes wide with fear.

Lambert had taken advantage of the convenient distraction to circle behind the ogre. He launched himself forward, transitioning through a half-pirouette and striking the ogre hard with his silver sword just above the elbow. It roared with pain and anger as he let the momentum carry him through another full turn and slashed upward, slicing through an artery. Blood spurted from the ogre's arm in gushes of dark red. As the beast turned to strike back at him, Lambert hit it in the chest with Aard, knocking it off balance. The ogre dropped Arnaud, who passed out. Lambert kicked him out of the way with his heel, keeping his eyes on the monster.

It didn't take long for it to recover from the shock, and the damage Lambert had done with his sword had apparently only pissed it off more. The ogre bellowed and charged at him. He quickly rolled out of the way, getting in another hit with his sword as the monster ran past him. Its momentum caused it to smash into the opposite wall of the cave. Enraged, it shook its head clumsily and wheeled around to face Lambert. It began to charge again, this time heading straight for the unconscious Arnaud.

" _Fuck!_ " Lambert sprinted toward the ogre head-on, trying to get to Arnaud before the monster did, but it was too late. The ogre's enormous foot landed square on Arnaud's head. He could hear the man's skull crack open and the wet sound of his brain matter spurting out. 

"God _DAMN IT!_ " Lambert screamed in frustration. Well, he definitely wasn't getting paid now, and thanks to Arnaud's stupidity he now had to kill the monster anyway. He changed course to circle to the right of the ogre and spun on his heel, aiming low on the ogre's leg. A trail of vivid red followed his sword as it arced through the air. He must have hit another artery. The beast stumbled, its leg buckling. He followed up with a high slash, aiming for the neck.

The ogre was faster than Lambert gave him credit for. Before he could register what was happening, it had flung out its enormous arm and backhanded him in the chest, sending him sailing across the cavern. He slammed hard into a stalagmite and slid to the floor, dazed and breathless. As he struggled to get his bearings, the monster charged at him again. There was no time for him to get out of the way. He was bracing for the impact when he saw the briefest flash of movement in the corner of his swimming vision.

Inhumanly fast, Aiden came sprinting out of the shadows at a perpendicular angle to the ogre. He leapt at the monster, holding his sword over his head with both hands, and buried it to the hilt in the monster's neck. Blood erupted from the wound as the blade emerged from the other side. Lambert struggled to his feet, bracing his back against the stalagmite as he pushed himself upward. Aiden was hanging onto his sword, which was still stuck fast in the beast's thick hide. The ogre was thrashing around and clawing at its throat in an attempt to shake him off. It roared, the sound an awful gurgle as its lungs filled with blood. Flecks of it sprayed out over its lips. Though the beast was dying, it was definitely still dangerous. Aiden was holding on for dear life as it tried desperately to rip the sword from its throat.

"The ceiling, Wolf!" Aiden yelled. "Use your crossbow!"

Lambert squinted upward. Everything was still spinning, but he could see what Aiden was talking about. Suspended from the roof of the cavern was an enormous rock formation. It wobbled precariously with every reverberating stomp the beast made. One well-placed bolt should be enough to knock it loose. His arms felt like they were made of lead, but he managed to load the crossbow and aimed it high. The bolt flew through the air and hit the stalactite at its base with a satisfying crack. It swung violently and broke free of the ceiling. 

Lambert shouted a warning to Aiden, but the chestnut-haired witcher was already diving out of the way. The rocks landed directly on top of the ogre with an almighty crash. The whole room shook as Lambert collapsed back against the rock, trying desperately not to black out.

When the dust settled, he opened his eyes to see Aiden crouched in front of him. "Are you alright?" He looked concerned.

Lambert glanced down at himself. He was covered in blood, but most of it wasn't his. "I have a few broken ribs and I busted up the back of my head, but I'll live. Thanks," he added, accepting the vial of Swallow Aiden handed to him. He took it down like a shot and closed his eyes, waiting for the potion to take effect. It tasted foul, but within a few minutes his scalp had healed and he could feel his ribs starting to knit back together. It itched like hell.

He took Aiden's offered hand and was pulled to his feet. He looked around. They had pretty much destroyed the cavern. There was blood and rubble everywhere. In the center of the room were the remains of the troll, an enormous lump of grey-green flesh crushed almost beyond recognition by the rocks. On the opposite side of the room lay Arnaud.

Lambert approached the body. Arnaud's head was crushed completely flat, a mass of grey chunks of brain, congealed blood, and hair. Anger welled up in him. He grabbed the corpse by its brightly-colored doublet and shouted at it.

"Why the fuck didn't you stay home, you bastard?! All you had to do was wait one fucking day!" He dropped the body more forcefully than was necessary and kicked it in the ribs. It may have been wrong to desecrate a corpse, but Lambert didn't care. It felt good to let out his frustration. If it hadn't been for Aiden, Arnaud would have gotten both of them killed.

Aiden stood by idly watching the display, his arms crossed. He waited until Lambert had stopped, panting, to speak.

"Guessing that was your employer?"

Lambert spat into the dirt. "No shit. Long story."

"That's unfortunate." Aiden walked over to the ogre and retrieved his sword from its neck, the blade singing as he pulled it from the wound. He wiped it on his trousers and slid it back into its sheath. "My offer to split the coin still stands, if you'd like. After all, you were the one who struck the final blow."

"Don't try to make me feel better. I was as good as dead before you showed up. It's fucking embarrassing."

Aiden shrugged. "And who knows what would have happened if I had tried to fight it on my own? We killed it as a team. You deserve half the coin, it's only fair."

"Fine. I wouldn't say no to a drink, either. Shall we?" Lambert gestured to the monster's corpse. Aiden drew a long, thin knife from his belt and made quick work of removing the head.

"We should burn both the bodies, you know. Otherwise this place is going to be infested with nekkers in a couple days." Aiden said offhandedly. Lambert grabbed Arnaud's body by its feet and dragged it into the center of the room, tossing it unceremoniously on top of the ogre. Aiden doused both of them with oil and set it alight with a burst of Igni. Acrid smoke began to fill the cavern.

"Come on, let's go collect." Aiden started to walk back toward the entrance. Lambert paused for a moment, staring into the flames. He reached into his pocket and withdrew Arnaud's crumpled griffin feather. He tossed it into the fire and followed Aiden back to his horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! The next chapter is already half-written so hopefully it'll be ready for you soon! Still no beta so any mistakes are my own. I wrote the majority of this while working a night shift so hopefully it's coherent.


	4. To a Job Well Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get paid, and Lambert really needs a drink.

Lambert waited outside in the street while Aiden collected the coin from his employer. The day had only continued to get hotter, and the sun beat down on him like a hammer. He drew quite a few shocked stares from the finely-dressed townspeople passing by. He grimaced. He knew he looked like hell. Blood was matted in his hair and had run into practically every crevice of his armor, most of his body was coated in a thick layer of grey cave dust, and the scorching sun had caused the mixture to congeal into large clumps. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead, carving tiny rivulets through the grime. Even for a witcher, he stood out like a sore thumb. He wished Aiden would hurry up.

Before he could even finish the thought Aiden was there, mounting his mare gracefully and tossing Lambert a pouch of coin.

"I talked him up a bit on the reward." He said cheerfully, pocketing the rest of the crowns. "Two hundred is your share. Want to go get drunk?”

Lambert shook his head. He didn't need his witcher's senses to know that he stank. "I'll catch up with you later. Same place as last night?"

Aiden nodded. "See you in a few hours, then."

~~~~~~

The river was clear as glass. Lambert stripped off his armor and waded into the water, diving below the surface once it was more than waist deep. It was freezing, but the cold felt good on such a hot day. Besides, it was nothing compared to the rivers near Kaer Morhen in the winter. He scrubbed at his hair with both hands, working out the clotted blood and cave dust. When he couldn't hold his breath any longer he surfaced, slicking it away from his face.

The water around him was stained a deep reddish brown that cleared slowly as the current carried the blood and grime downstream. When he was done washing himself, Lambert waded out of the river and knelt on the grassy bank as he scrubbed his armor under the water. Another cloud of red bloomed in the water as he submerged each piece. He hung all of it on a nearby tree branch to dry; it wouldn't take long, given the heat of the day, and he was far enough away from the main road that he shouldn't be disturbed. He took his time cleaning and oiling his sword while his armor dried. When he was done, the flat of the blade shone like a mirror.

Lambert examined his reflection briefly. His dark brown hair was beginning to recede at the temples, and his short beard was dotted in places with grey. Despite the signs of aging, his face had retained a youthful roundness. Two scars skimmed along the right side of his face, bisecting his eyebrow and skipping over his eye to continue down his cheekbone. He traced them briefly with a finger, remembering the bruxa that had left him the souvenirs. 

His gaze landed on his eyes, deeply unnatural with their yellow color and feline pupils. He hated his eyes. They were a constant reminder of his otherness, the reason he never had a chance of blending in amongst the common folk. No matter how convincingly he acted, the eyes would always give him away. 

Lambert sheathed his sword abruptly and began tugging his armor back on. He didn't really feel like sitting in the muddy grass feeling sorry for himself all afternoon. The pouch of crowns was burning a hole in his pocket, and what he really needed was a nice strong drink to burn away the memory of the past day. He made his way back inside the city walls as the sun began to set behind him.

~~~~~~

The tavern was noisy and packed with townsfolk, but Lambert spotted Aiden right away. He was sitting by himself at a table in the back corner of the room with his hood down, drinking deeply from a pint of beer. Lambert picked his way through the crowd and clambered over the bench to sit beside him.

“Good to see you, Wolf.” Aiden said with a hint of a smile. He slid a mug of stout over to Lambert. “Hope you like Kaedweni. Apparently it’s all they have here.”

“Thanks.” Lambert clasped the mug between his hands. “Thanks for the save earlier, too. I may be proud, but I can admit when I got my ass beat. I owe you one.”

Aiden waved his words away. “Don’t worry about it. Neither of us was gonna be able to take that thing down alone. That was damn good teamwork.”

Lambert snorted. “I got my skull split open and my employer got his popped like a cherry. You have to admit it was a shit contract.”

“Maybe so, but we’re still standing and it’s not.” Aiden raised his mug. “To a job well done.”

Lambert rolled his eyes, but he still knocked his mug against Aiden’s before draining the entire thing in three gulps. “I’ll get the next round. Does this place have vodka, or is warm beer the best they can manage?”

Aiden shrugged. “Worth asking, I guess.” 

Lambert sauntered off to talk to the innkeep and returned a few minutes later with a large bottle of pepper vodka and two glasses. He’d used axii to get the man to give it to him for ten crowns instead of the fifty he asked; not exactly ethical, but he was beyond giving a shit. He placed the bottle on the table with a thunk. 

“Come on, let’s get drunk. I need to get the taste of ogre blood and cave slime out of my mouth.” He poured each of them a shot and downed his immediately. It burned satisfyingly on the way down. Aiden held onto his, rolling the glass between his thumb and forefinger.

“Saw you hex the inkeep.” Aiden looked at Lambert like he was sizing him up. It was hard to read his expression.

“So? Asshole wanted to rob me blind. I paid him what I thought it was worth.” Lambert crossed his arms defensively. “Didn’t take you for a goody-two-shoes.”

Aiden held up his hands. “Hey, not looking for a fight. Look, you know my school’s reputation. Not exactly in a position to judge anybody else.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow and leaned in, attentive. “And tell me, is that reputation deserved?” Aiden avoided his gaze and took two shots of the fiery liquor in quick succession. 

“Yes and no. Some of my brothers took contracts on humans. Most of them got too greedy, took contracts on people who were too prominent. They all ended up dead or missing pretty soon after that. Not many of us left now.”

Lambert was still watching Aiden’s expression intently. “And you?”

“Me?” For the first time, Aiden was visibly bothered by something Lambert had said. His voice was gruff as he replied. “I just want to walk the path, make good coin, and not get killed doing it. Shoving a sword up a drowner’s ass is easy. Murdering some fair young duchess without getting caught, not so much. Look at what happened to the Vipers. In fact,” He said, glancing sidelong at Lambert, “I heard they had a bit of a run-in with your school a few years back. Nasty business with Foltest, if I remember correctly.”

“What Geralt does with his spare time is his own damn business. And what he does most of the time is poke the fuckin’ hive." Lambert gestured with his hands emphatically. "I try to avoid the fallout. Witcher neutrality and all that.” He downed another shot of vodka, wincing as it burned its way down. “Shit, I’m glad I took this stuff off the inkeep’s hands. Feels like it would probably kill a normal human.”

“Tastes pretty good to me.” Aiden shrugged. “Enough about assassins and kings. Fancy a round of gwent?”

Lambert acquiesced, and spent the better part of the next hour thrashing him soundly. Aiden played with the monster deck, but he had no idea how to use it effectively. The swarm tactic worked well for one round at the most, and then succumbed to Lambert’s superior strategy. By the end of it, they were both thoroughly drunk and the bottle was almost empty. 

Lambert was an asshole when he was drunk. Really, he was an asshole pretty much all the time, but the alcohol did nothing to blunt his sharp tongue and took the part of his brain that told him when something might not be the best idea out of commission. What started out as good-natured roughhousing between him and Aiden turned into an all out brawl when Aiden shoved him backwards into a group of thugs drinking at the next table. The vodka bottle ended up shattered, the table ended up splintered, and both Lambert and Aiden ended up tossed out on their asses by the inkeep, who threatened to call the city guard if he ever saw them back in his tavern again. Laughing, they stumbled off into the cool night, Lambert with his arm around Aiden’s shoulder for support.

~~~~~~

Lambert awoke to the sensation of someone kicking him in the shoulder. He groaned and shielded his eyes with his hand. It must have been noon already, and the sun was glaring directly down at him like it disapproved of his life choices. He slowly shoved himself up to a sitting position and tried not to throw up.

Apparently he’d passed out in an alley somewhere deep in the slums of the city. The leg of his trousers was wet with puddle water, and the imprint of cobblestones was pressed into the side of his face. The boot that kicked him awake belonged to Aiden. He looked little worse for the wear; perhaps a bit tired, but nowhere near the hangover that Lambert was experiencing.

“Rise and shine, Princess!” Aiden was entirely too cheerful. Lambert found himself wanting to smash his face in. He took stock of his equipment--his swords were still there, and nothing important was missing from his supplies. He groaned again and rested his face in his hands. 

“What the fuck do you want?” 

“Found us an interesting contract. It’s a bit of a hike--we’ll have to ride to White Orchard--but the Nilfgaardians posted it, so the coin should be good. Sounds like some kind of wraith to me.” Aiden waved the parchment in Lambert’s face until he snatched it out of his hands. 

“A wraith isn’t a two witcher job. Besides, when did I say we were going to work together?” 

Aiden shrugged. “You didn’t. But I really did think we made a good team back there with the ogre.”

Lambert still had his eyes shut, waiting for the world to stop spinning. “Thought we already agreed that it was a shit job. You seriously want to go for another round?”

Aiden squatted down beside him. “I do. Look, it's nice to have someone watching your back, and you're good with your sword. Do this one contract with me. If it’s shit, we can part ways and I won’t bother you again. But it’s not going to be shit.” He offered Lambert a gloved hand and pulled him upright. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got run over by a Shaelmaar.” Lambert thought for a moment, still fighting the urge to vomit. Against his better judgement, he found himself liking Aiden’s company, and he’d already proven he could hold his own in a fight. He sighed. 

“Fine. One job. But first I’m going to throw up in that sewer grate.” Hugging the wall, he dragged himself down the alley to the opening in question and dropped to his knees in supplication to the gods of liquor. 

When Lambert was done emptying his stomach, Aiden passed him a vial of White Honey. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and drank it slowly, letting the sickly sweet syrup wash the sour taste of bile off his tongue. When he was fit to walk, they made their way to where their horses were stabled and saddled up for the long ride to White Orchard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was so short! I don't know why, but these scenes were very difficult for me. Things will get more exciting soon, I promise!


	5. Pestilence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert and Aiden find themselves neck-deep in necrophages and take on a contract for the Nilfgaardians.

Lambert pirouetted, swinging his blade in a wide arc. He grinned wickedly as he felt the silver bite deeply into ghoul flesh. Three of the monsters fell at his feet dying, only to be immediately replaced by four more. The spilt blood of their brethren had them in a frenzy, thick saliva dripping from their gaping maws as they clawed desperately at him, trying to find purchase on his armor. He followed the attack with a deep uppercut, slashing open the abdomen of one of the ghouls. Its viscera came spilling out of the wound with a splat, blood and stomach contents spraying across Lambert's face as the monster gurgled and sank to the ground. Lambert retched and spat; he had picked the wrong moment to inhale.

His back was to Aiden as they fought together against the swarm of necrophages, covering each other while they tried to hold their ground. The two of them were surrounded on all sides by ghouls. They howled with bloodlust and pain as the witchers methodically butchered them one by one, the monsters falling on the bodies of their dying comrades to feast before their hearts had even stopped beating. Lambert cast a wary glance toward the village silhouetted on the horizon. It was a wonder the noise alone hadn't woken every person in White Orchard already. He expertly dispatched another two ghouls with his sword and lit up as many of the remaining ones as he could with Igni.

Aiden fought like he was dancing. His feet barely touched the ground as he whirled and spun in a rapid, insistent ballet that only he knew the steps to. All around him bodies fell to the ground. Blood followed the arc of his sword with every slash and cut. Lambert's own fighting style felt clumsy and heavy-handed when compared side-by-side.

The ghouls began to thin slowly. Their bodies were stacked four deep in a circle around the two witchers as they mopped up the stragglers. The final ghoul fell with Lambert's sword thrust directly through its neck. Lambert wiped his brow with his sleeve. The fight had been invigorating; he felt invincible with all the adrenaline pumping through his arteries. Aiden, too, looked pleased with the results of the battle, landing lightly on his feet as he finished his final spin. Both of them were splattered with mud and necrophage blood. Their eyes met, glowing slightly in the reflected light of the moon. Lambert couldn't suppress a grin.

Aiden sauntered over to him, wiping his blade on a filthy sleeve. "See, I told you--"

Lambert's attention was drawn away by a sudden movement behind Aiden. Apparently they had missed one monster; an alghoul, its spikes already extended and deadly sharp. It was running directly at Aiden, who was still oblivious to the danger. Lambert took off at a sprint, launching himself past Aiden and raising his sword to strike it down. At the same time, Aiden spun on the balls of his feet and drew the sign of Aard. Lambert's sword was inches away from making contact with the monster when the blast hit full force, sending both him and the alghoul flying. 

Lambert tumbled head over heels and landed hard on his ass in the mud several meters away. Gritting his teeth, he got to his feet, scraping the mud off his armor unceremoniously. The alghoul had landed beside him and was stuck on its back, legs scrabbling at the air like an overturned tortoise. He glared at Aiden. Without breaking his gaze, he plunged his sword straight down through the alghoul's chest. The monster squealed and went limp. He withdrew the blade and wiped it as best he could on his soiled trousers before shoving it back into its sheath.

"Thanks for that, jackass." Lambert said, with as much venom as he could muster. He was still glowering at the other witcher, who was trying and failing to suppress his laughter. Seeing the look on Lambert's face, Aiden bent over, trying to regain his composure.

"S-sorry." Aiden choked out, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "In all fairness, your face was priceless."

"You better believe you're going to pay for that later." Lambert scowled. He gestured around at the ghoul corpses. "Moving on--pretty sure there was a nest around here somewhere. I'm gonna go destroy it."

It was easy to follow the ghouls' tracks back to their origin. They were clumsy, stupid creatures by nature and left a very clear trail through the muddy fields. It was also obvious what had attracted them in the first place; their nest was situated next to an enormous mass grave full of half-charred bodies. Aiden knelt down to examine the corpses while Lambert searched his supplies for the appropriate bomb. 

"Must have been a battlefield near here," Aiden remarked when we was through, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Almost all of them are soldiers. Mostly Temerian from the look of things, but there's a few Black Ones in there too." He gestured at a winged helmet.

"Shame they did such a bad job of burying the poor bastards." Lambert said, still rummaging through the bag. "Necrophages must have smelled this ten miles away. I mean sure, we killed all the ghouls, hooray. But more will keep coming if they don't deal with this sooner or later. Fucking finally!" He said in exasperation, pulling a Samum bomb from his pack.

"Think there was a contract out on those ghouls?" Aiden asked, standing idly by with his hands in his pockets.

"Dunno. Wouldn't hurt to check, though." Lambert dropped the bomb into the nest and retreated quickly before it exploded, showering both of them with earth and bone fragments. He smirked in satisfaction when a particularly large clump struck Aiden in the face. "Alright, that's one job done. Let's head into town and check for notices." Aiden nodded in agreement. They made their way back to their horses and headed for town.

~~~~~~

The notice board was practically barren, even by rural standards. Aside from a duplicate of the wraith notice Lambert and Aiden had already picked up, there was a note from an irate farmer about someone stealing his turnips in the night, a plea from an old woman for extra grain, and an advertisement for lessons in Nilfgaardian. Nothing of interest for a witcher.

Although there wasn't a contract posted for the ghouls' nest, Lambert figured they'd talk to the ealdorman anyway. He could always do with extra coin, and there had been _a lot_ of fucking necrophages. There was no way they hadn't already caused some kind of trouble for the villagers. The entire settlement was surrounded by battlefields, and he suspected that there was more than one mass grave nearby.

Unfortunately, the ealdorman and Lambert were not of the same mind. "Not how it works," the man said, shaking his head. "Ye can't expect me to hand out coin when there's been no contract issued. Truth be told, I've seen no signs of the beasts, and even if I had, I'd have just told folks to steer clear of the battlefields. They already do, for the most part, anyhow."

"Look, I understand that you think you're safe here," Aiden said, shooting Lambert a pointed look when he opened his mouth to protest. "But a pack that large could have taken out half the village in a matter of minutes. Ghouls prefer dead meat, but they're going to run out of that eventually, and when they're hungry they don't discriminate."

The ealdorman shrugged. "We'll take our chances." Lambert made a fist against his thigh. They were always so fucking ungrateful.

"Fine. Then tell us where to find the person who issued this." Aiden thrust the wraith contract at the man, who squinted at it for a moment. He was barely literate; Lambert could see him mouthing the words slowly as he attempted to decipher the parchment.

"Ah, you'll want to see the Black 'Uns for that. They're set up in the old fort, to the north of the sawmill." He pointed, indicating the direction. Aiden nodded and turned to go.

Lambert had been biting his tongue for most of the encounter, but he had to have the last word. "Look, old man. We may have killed one nest of ghouls, but more will come, and next time we won't be around to save your sorry asses. Take my advice--send some men out to the battlefields and burn the corpses. _Properly,_ this time. And make sure they're well armed when you do. Or all of you will die screaming." 

The ealdorman looked taken aback. Lambert felt Aiden's hand on his shoulder, telling him it was time to go. Lambert spat in the dirt and followed him into the night.

~~~~~~

They made camp near a Place of Power to the northwest of the village. Lambert wasn't feeling particularly talkative, and luckily Aiden seemed to pick up on that. They laid their bedrolls out on opposite sides of the fire and sat in silence until Aiden announced that he was going to sleep. Lambert lay awake for some time, staring up at the stars. Eventually, the pleasant humming of his medallion in response to the nearby magic lulled him to sleep.

The morning dawned grey and cold. When Lambert awoke, their supplies were already packed and the fire was out. "Come on," Aiden said, checking the fit of the saddle on his horse. "We have work to do."

The Nilfgaardian garrison wasn't much of a fort. Under Temerian rule it must have been an impressive outpost, but it had fallen into disrepair. Now it was little more than a shell of crumbling bricks in a shape that suggested the outlines of a small castle. The Nilfgaardians had made the best of things, setting up tents in an open courtyard that had once been a great hall. Their leader had his office in the ruins of a tower.

Captain Peter Saar Gwynleve looked like the typical Nilfgaardian officer. He had long black hair and a mustache, and wore black armor with a golden sun emblem on the breastplate. It seemed that being in a position of leadership had allowed him to go soft, though. His checkered leggings were far too tight for his stature and appeared to be hampering his movement. He spoke with an accent but had a good grasp on the common tongue compared to his soldiers.

Lambert typically wasn't the biggest fan of Nilfgaard, but he was willing to overlook it when a contract was involved. The Captain was obviously an intelligent man and wasted no time in describing the problem to the witchers. Their outpost was fairly isolated, and the villagers had little in the way of supplies to support the several dozen men who now occupied it. The Nilfgaardian government had sent several wagons of food and medical supplies to the garrison, but none had arrived. The Captain had sent a patrol to investigate, but they had not returned. They were trained soldiers and were unlikely to have been overpowered by the locals, so monsters were a likely cause. Some of the men on night watch at the garrison had seen flashes of green light and heard screaming from the surrounding swamp recently as well. They agreed a price, and the witchers set out. Lambert did his best to ignore the noise of disgust the guard at the gate made as he passed. 

It was easy for them to trace the path of the Nilfgaardian search party. Their hobnail boots had left clear impressions in the thick mud, and patrol hadn't made it very far into the swamp. Lambert and Aiden had only been following their tracks for a couple of hours before they started finding bodies. 

"Let me see...black armor, winged helmet, undeserved sense of superiority...yep, I'd say that's one of them." Lambert quipped, squatting down to examine the body face down in the mud. 

"Yeah, but something's not right." Aiden rolled over a second body with his foot. "Look at this one's face--covered in boils." 

Lambert frowned. "Boils?" He followed suit with his own corpse and yanked off its helmet with a bit of effort. Its face was also covered in yellow boils, some of them already ruptured and draining purulent fluid. Its eyes were almost popping out of its head, and red streaks radiated up from its throat to its swollen cheeks. "Scratch marks. He choked to death." He looked at Aiden. "I don't like this."

"Me either." Aiden shook his head. "Want to bet the rest of them died the same way?"

They found the remaining soldiers up ahead. As they approached the bodies several rats scurried away, startled by the witchers' footsteps. Aside from being gnawed on by rodents, the rest of the patrol all showed similar signs of disease and decay. Lambert straightened up and turned to Aiden. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Plague maiden." Aiden nodded. "Rare, those. And notoriously difficult to kill."

"The battlefield, all those rotting corpses...must be what attracted it. Have you fought a pesta before?"

"Never."

"Great. We are so fucked." Lambert was at a loss. Plague maidens were almost unheard of; not even Vesemir had ever fought one, and he was older than all the other wolves put together. "Got any bright ideas?"

Aiden shrugged. "Fight it like any other wraith, I guess. Yrden and specter oil. The real question is, how are we going to draw it out?"

Lambert thought for a moment. "Well, we don't have her bones to burn, but maybe some of theirs would be good enough?" He gestured around at the fallen soldiers. "Put 'em in a big pile and light it up. Worst case, we prevent another ghoul infestation."

"Worth a shot. I'll start dragging bodies." Aiden made himself busy constructing a pyre while Lambert carefully oiled his blade. He took an extra moment to brew a small batch of Petri's Philter; he wasn't usually a potions-before-combat kind of guy, but they were going to need every advantage they could get. He drank half of it himself and shared the rest with Aiden. 

It didn't take long to finish their preparations. The sun still filtered weakly through the clouds overhead as they stood together by the heap of Nilfgaardian corpses. With a nod from Aiden as a cue, the two of them used Igni in unison to light the pyre. The flames smoldered briefly, struggling to find purchase in the damp and muck of the swamp, and then they caught and flared high into the sky. The witchers stood at the ready, watching for even the tiniest movement.

Nothing emerged from the fire. The two of them waited for what felt like hours, until the pyre had almost gone out and the bodies were charred to ash. Still nothing. Lambert leaned against a tree, fiddling with the knife from his belt. "Well, that sure worked like a charm." Lambert said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Aiden was unflappable as always, and had started walking the perimeter of the clearing, looking for anything else that could help them. 

"Lighten up," he said affably. "It wasn't likely to work, but it was worth a try. We'll figure something out." He squatted to examine something in the mud. Lambert turned his knife over in his hands, feeling the weight of the blade. He heard rustling on the ground nearby and threw the it in the direction of the sound. A squeal told him it had struck true. He walked over to examine his kill and found an enormous rat, pinned to the tree by his blade. Grimly he removed the knife and picked up the dead rodent. 

"You know, we could just take this opportunity to head back to the garrison, ask for more coin," He said, tossing the rat into the fire. "I'm pissed we wasted that potion though, I don't know if I have the right supplies to--"

The sudden twitch of his medallion and a mournful wail interrupted his musings. The sky fell dark around them as Lambert whirled around to see the spectral form of a woman emerge from the trees. Her skin was sloughing off her body, and what remained was covered in boils and pustules. A long, writhing tongue emerged from her face where her jaw should have been. Her hair was lank and patchy. As she appeared, the stench of sickness and decay filled the clearing like a thick fog. 

When the pesta was fully manifest, she shrieked and hurtled at Lambert, claws outstretched to dig into his abdomen. He dodged out of the way, casting Quen on himself to protect against further attacks. 

"Shit, I think you pissed it off!" Aiden yelled, unsheathing his silver sword. His left hand was held at the ready to lay down a trap for the specter. The wraith dived at Lambert again, and he dodged toward Aiden this time, running past him. As the pesta followed, Aiden drew the Yrden sign in front of her. She flew directly into the trap and was immediately ensnared in crackling tendrils of purple electricity. The wraith screamed in pain, but was held fast by the magic trap. 

Lambert attacked head-on, hitting the pesta with a barrage of quick blows from his silver sword. Pus ran freely from the wounds he opened. He could hear her flesh sizzling where the oil from his sword had touched it. Unfortunately, the wounds didn't seem to bother the wraith very much. She strained and broke free of her magical bonds, managing to sink a claw into Aiden's forearm before he could roll out of the way. Aiden spun and retaliated with a vicious slash of his sword, severing her arm at the shoulder. 

The wraith screamed, emanating a blast of sound that knocked them both backward. Aiden landed on his feet like the cat he was, but Lambert skidded across the muddy ground on his ass. He used the momentum to roll backward and regain his footing, baring his teeth in anger. The pesta was now between him and Aiden, writhing and shrieking in fury. A vortex of swarming insects swirled up from the ground around her, forming a cloud so thick that he almost couldn't see through it. 

Lambert charged at the wraith, but as he spun into his attack the insects dove at him. His Quen shattered immediately in a burst of golden particles, and he felt dozens of stings peppering his exposed flesh. He was completely swarmed with the bugs,. He desperately tried to swat them away from his face. The buzzing was practically drowning out his thoughts. He was on the verge of being completely overwhelmed, the insects trying in droves to enter his body through his eyes, his ears, his mouth. 

Lambert felt a blast of searing heat, and the cloud dissipated. He gasped for air, grateful even for the rank stench of the clearing because it meant that there were no biting insects crawling up his nose. The scraggly grass around him was dried up and sprinkled with tiny embers; Aiden must have hit him with Igni. He was vaguely aware of the smell of burning hair and realized his eyebrows were singed. 

He shook off the discomfort and scanned the clearing. Aiden was on the far side, taking on the pesta by himself. His whirling dance was proving ineffective against the monster. The pesta became immaterial, Aiden's silver passing through its body without causing harm. He drew the Yrden sign over and over, but was unable to snare it and force it to take on solid form. Lambert sprinted back into the fight just in time to see the wraith rear up in preparation for a vicious blow. 

He dove onto Aiden, knocking him to the ground and throwing a Quen shield up over them both. The pesta became solid and plummeted down onto them. The Quen broke, but the blast forced the wraith backward. Lambert rolled off Aiden and trapped the stunned wraith once more with Yrden. It struggled and tore at the magical bonds with its claws, but they held fast. 

Lambert shot Aiden a look, and the other man nodded back as if he could read his mind. The two of them swung at the monster together, silver biting hard into her flesh. As hard as he could, Lambert thrust his sword directly through her heart. She screamed, the sound of it guttural and grating to his sensitive ears. Aiden brought his blade down for the death blow, splitting her skull. With a final wail, the pesta dissolved in a burst of light, leaving nothing behind but a pile of ashes.

The unnatural darkness gave way to a clear sky tinged orange by the setting sun. The witchers stood still, panting to catch their breath. Aiden sheathed his sword and clapped Lambert on the back, grinning. He was bleeding where the pesta had wounded his forearm, but it would heal. Lambert touched his burnt eyebrow gingerly with his fingertips; that would heal too, but it was going to look godawful until it did. At least it was the scarred side. He grinned back at Aiden. He couldn't wait to brag about this kill the next time he was at Kaer Morhen. He suspected that even crusty old Vesemir would be impressed, although he was unlikely to show it. 

Lambert sifted through the ashes until he found a big enough piece of the monster to serve as a trophy. "I think we've earned ourselves some booze money!" He proclaimed, holding it aloft. "Think Captain Tightpants back at the garrison is going to be impressed?"

"He better be. That was much worse than I thought it was going to be from the contract. Pretty sure we deserve a bonus at the very least."

The prospect was heartening. "C'mon," Lambert said, slinging the trophy over his shoulder. "I don't want to have to spend the night in this putrid swamp anyways." The two of them made their way back to their horses and rode for the ruined fort as the sun slipped below the horizon behind them.

~~~~~~

Although it was the middle of the night when they arrived, the garrison was bustling with activity. The clang of the blacksmith's hammer rang out over the crumbling brick of the fortress. Guards walked the walls in pairs, sparks spiraling upward into the darkness from their torches. Lambert could hear them whispering in Nilfgaardian as he and Aiden walked past.

They found the captain sitting at his desk in the tower, exactly where they'd left him hours before. He stood when they entered. 

"Vatt'ghern, you return. What have you learned of my men?"

"They're all dead." Lambert tossed the wraith's remains onto the desk. The Captain bent down, examining it with great interest. 

"How did it happen?" 

"They were killed by a pesta." Aiden chimed in. "A particularly dangerous form of wraith that spreads disease and death wherever it appears. This one was probably drawn by the corpses on the battlefield nearby." 

The Captain looked troubled. "I do not know of this...pesta, but if what you say is true, then you have done me a great service. Will I be able to send men to retrieve the bodies?"

Lambert shook his head. "Bad idea. They were in pretty rough shape when we found them. We burned all the corpses we found. Witchers are immune to most diseases, but I can't say what would happen to your soldiers if they were exposed to the things those men were exposed to. Better to leave them where they are."

"As you say. I believe you have earned your reward." The Captain produced a sack of coin from one of the drawers in his desk. "I thank you for your help. It seems you have spared me from losing more men. I cannot afford to give you extra coin, but see my blacksmith before you leave and he will repair your weapons and armor, free of charge." Lambert took the payment and nodded in thanks. He and Aiden left the tower, stopping to take advantage of the blacksmith on their way out. Lambert used a portion of his coin to stock up on food and alcohol while the repairs were being made. 

They were on their way before dawn. Although they could have camped at the garrison, Lambert was eager to put some distance between him and the Nilfgaardians. He was used to people whispering behind his back, but he preferred to at least know what they were saying. The two witchers rode out to the west in search of a place to camp and plan their next move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long to post! Thanks to everyone for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. I'd love to hear your constructive criticism of the story so far! More should be on the way soon.


	6. Streets of Gold

Lambert cursed as an unsheathed knife nicked his thumb. He was arm deep in his saddlebag, but the item he was searching for eluded his grasp. There was simply too much stored there; his second set of armor tangled with countless vials of potion ingredients and loose rune stones. He cursed his disorganization internally, but it made him feel better to know that he would never be as much of a disaster as Geralt in that respect. The older witcher's trunk at Kaer Morhen was packed so full of useless items that it wouldn't even close anymore. The man must have kept every sword and set of armor he ever came across.

His searching fingers finally closed on cool glass, and he pulled a large bottle of clear liquid from the tangled mess. "Found it!" He proclaimed, tossing it to Aiden, who plucked it from the air effortlessly. Aiden twisted the cork from the neck of the bottle and raised it up to sniff cautiously at the contents.

"Gods above, what _is_ that? Smells like Gull mixed with a Leshen decoction." Aiden wrinkled his nose.

Lambert grinned. "Kaer Morhen's finest. I brew it from potato peels in the stills they used to use for mutagens. Guaranteed to put you on your ass faster than a brothel full of succubi." He ambled back to the fire and sat on the grassy earth beside Aiden. Several weeks had passed since their first contract together in White Orchard, and although he wasn't sure that he'd ever officially agreed to keep working together, he found himself appreciating the stability that came with having a companion.

He snatched the bottle back and took a swig to prove that it wasn't poisonous. "See?" Noting Aiden's skeptical gaze, he gestured at himself. "Still alive." He thrust the liquor back toward the other witcher. "Can't believe you have no problem wading waist-deep through sewage to slay a few drowners, but you won't drink my booze." He made a show of pouting, feigning offense.

Aiden rolled his eyes and took a large gulp, wincing as the alcohol burned its way down. "Happy now?" He gasped, coughing slightly.

"Damn near. Let me know if you want me to loosen the laces on your corset." Lambert laid back on the grass, chuckling when he heard Aiden growl in annoyance. He held out his hand for the bottle and Aiden pressed it into his grasp, perhaps a bit more forcefully than necessary. He took another draught of the potent spirit and sat up, turning to face the other witcher.

"Been meaning to ask you--how'd you get that scar?" Lambert drew his finger across his neck, indicating the enormous slashes across Aiden's.

"Oh, that. Long story." Aiden watched the fire intently as if he were hoping Lambert had forgotten he was there. Lambert waited with a raised eyebrow for his companion to continue. Aiden sighed wearily. "Fine. Give me the bottle first, though."

Lambert complied, watching with interest as Aiden drained half of the remainder in one enormous gulp. He inhaled deeply before continuing.

"When we first met, you asked me if the reputation of my school was deserved. I told you that the answer was yes--that some of my brethren had chosen to take contracts on humans, that they became greedy, that they'd gotten what they deserved in the end. Of course, all of that was true in a way. My brothers turned assassins, taking in mountains of gold from power hungry nobles who wanted their competition eliminated. I refused to kill humans without reason. In my mind, the purpose of a witcher was to destroy monsters." Aiden paused, collecting his thoughts. The cold night wind whistled through the clearing, causing their fire to sputter for a moment before it died down.

"The time came when one of my brothers accepted a contract on a nobleman's daughter. His employer wanted the girl dead in order to muddy the line of succession and gain power for his own house. One problem, though--she was just an infant, not even one month old. My brother had no issue with this, but I did. I confronted him, and he grew angry. I was forced to kill him in order to prevent him from murdering the child." Aiden stared into flickering flames, the depths of his golden eyes betraying the anguish in his soul.

"Caspar was very dear to me. I remember when they first brought him to the keep. He was young--couldn't have been more than four years old--and so frightened. I took him under my wing, taught him everything I knew." His expression grew grim. "Unfortunately, it seems that I failed to teach him basic morality. He turned on me without a second thought. Had I not put my sword through his chest, he would have killed both me and the infant." Aiden turned to Lambert, his face gaunt. "His face haunts my dreams every night.”

"When word of what I'd done reached my brethren, they were less than pleased. Several of them came to find me in the night. Said that I'd betrayed the school, that I was a diseased limb that had to be cut off for the good of the whole. I begged them to see reason. They attacked me instead. It was one against four." He traced a finger absentmindedly along the path of the scars on his neck. "The strongest of them wielded a weapon of his own design--a gauntlet with a razor-sharp blade protruding from the tip of each finger, like claws." Aiden's other hand gripped his thigh, the knuckles white. "He left me with this souvenir. In return, I relieved him of his life." He fell quiet, avoiding Lambert's gaze.

They both watched the fire for a time, the silence heavy between them. Lambert didn't regret asking the question. There were plenty of unsavory things about him that Aiden wasn't aware of yet, even if murdering his fellow wolves wasn't among them. The logs crackled and shifted as the flames consumed them. Eventually, Lambert found that he couldn't bear the silence any longer.

"Do you remember where you were born?"

He wished he could take the question back almost as soon as it passed his lips, the banality of it stark in contrast to the deeply personal story Aiden had just shared with him. The other witcher didn't seem to mind, though. The tension that had been apparent in his posture went out of him. He thought for a moment before responding.

"It's hard to remember, I was so young when they took me. But I think that I was born in Lyria. You?"

"Aedirn. I lived with my parents on a farm there until I was eleven years old."

Aiden turned toward Lambert, looking at him with something like concern. He must have sensed the bitterness in his voice. "You never told me how you ended up at Kaer Morhen."

Lambert's mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. "Definitely wasn't my choice." He drank from the bottle of vodka, mulling the taste of potato peels and mutagens over on his tongue. "Look--I had a pretty nice life in Aedirn. Fields of rolling grain. A loving mother who doted on me. Oh, and a father who used to beat the shit out of both of us until blood ran from my ears and mom could hardly breathe because of all the broken ribs." He picked a small stone from the ground and threw it hard into the fire, a fountain of sparks leaping upward as the logs collapsed into a new formation.

"At this point I was pretty sure there weren't any gods. But being a good little peasant boy, I prayed. I prayed for an end to all of it, that one day he would simply just...disappear. _Poof_ , out of our lives forever." He made a gesture to indicate something vanishing. "One day, it seemed like my prayers had finally been answered. Dear old dad wandered into a nekker nest on his way home from the tavern. Was probably so drunk he wouldn't have been able to defend himself, if a witcher hadn't happened to appear at the last moment. Old man had already drunk away all our coin, so the witcher invoked the law of surprise." Lambert bared his teeth in anger, practically hissing the words. " _Give me the first thing you see when you get home_. Want to take a wild guess what that was?" He was vaguely aware of the rising pitch of his voice.

"I was a surprise child, too," Aiden murmured. "We all were. It was the way of things."

"Yes, but you were how old? Four years? Five?" Lambert spat back. "Do you even remember anything else? I sure as hell do. My life for the life of that bastard? Years of pain and suffering, of being spat on by those I'm doomed to serve, to atone for the sins of a man who beat me so bad he almost killed me more than once? Fuck fate. Fuck the way of things."

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. It wasn't Aiden he was angry at. "You know, I'm glad there aren't many of us left. Better to let the old ways die." He rubbed the back of his neck roughly. "I still think about mom a lot," he added, not knowing why he was sharing the information.

Aiden looked like he was considering his next words very carefully. "Have you seen her? Since the trials?" 

Lambert shook his head. "I would have outlived her by now even if dad hadn't finally lost his mind one night and bashed her skull in." He sighed. "Look, it's not all bad. I just resent that I never had a choice. None of us did. There were seventeen boys in my group. Five of us survived the grasses and were able to attempt the trial of the medallion. Only two lived through that: me, and a boy named Coën. He's dead now, too. The year after us, there were nine boys. None of them even survived the mutagens. They stopped trying to make new witchers after that."

The wind blew softly though the clearing, the rustling of the leaves above them filling the empty silence. A dove cooed somewhere nearby. Aiden scratched his beard pensively. "Lambert, don't take this the wrong way, but there's not a witcher alive whose life isn't filled with tragedy. We see humanity at all its worst moments. Our natural lifespans will almost always exceed those of the people we love. We're accepted by neither the humans nor the Aen Seidhe. The path we walk is littered with the corpses of both friends and monsters. Sometimes I think that maybe the boys who died young were the lucky ones." Aiden paused for a moment, collecting his words. Lambert got the impression that this was something he had thought about a lot over the years. 

"And yet we live,” he continued. “So you know what you do? You do your damn job, and do it well. To hell with royalty and riches and going out in a blaze of glory. You walk the Path, and one day, when you're very old and very tired, you die in your own bed. That's all you can do."

The fire faded to embers as Aiden's words hung heavy in the air between them. They sat together side-by-side, staring out into the cool night. The bottle of spirit lay forgotten on the grass between them.

~~~~~~

The golden rays of the rising sun found the witchers riding into Novigrad. Their horses trotted across the cobblestone bridge into the city, splashing up dirty water out of the shallow puddles scattered across the road. The guardsmen posted at the Tretogor gate eyed them warily as they passed through, but made no attempt to stop them. Though the hour was still early, the city was bustling with life. Shopkeepers were opening their stalls, townsfolk were wandering about their daily business, and the ubiquitous Temple Guard was present in full force. They rode on through the narrow streets, picking their way slowly through the crowds.

The sounds of an argument up ahead caught Lambert's attention. In a nearby alleyway, an elf woman was trying to fend off the advances of one of Radovid's witch hunters. The man was leaning in toward her with a menacing grin, his hands pressed against the brick wall on either side of her body, effectively pinning her in.

"--Round out your ears a bit, darlin', you'll look pretty enough then," he drawled. The woman made a sound of undisguised contempt as the witch hunter began to pull a short knife from his belt. Quick as a flash, her foot shot out and connected full force with his crotch. She was gone before the man finished falling to his knees, shoving past the witchers as she ran down the street.

Lambert bristled. He hated Novigrad, always had. The city always had an air of cruelty about it, something sordid in the air that threatened to solidify and ooze its way down his throat. There was too much disparity. The foundations of the opulent mansions in Gildorf stood just feet above the rooftops of the crooked buildings in the slums that threatened to topple over at the slightest provocation. The nonhumans had largely been banished to live outside the city walls, sometimes seven or eight of them to a dilapidated one room house. The thieves and brigands had grown far too bold, their sheer number making it impractical for the guards to waste their time attempting to apprehend them. Even a witcher wasn't safe from having his pockets rifled through as he walked across Hierarch Square.

Work was work, though, and the smaller towns near the Pontar had nothing left for them. Peasants simply weren't willing to pay two witchers to do the work of one, and drowner nests weren't terribly exciting to begin with. Just as the population density seemed to bring out the worst in humanity, it also attracted particularly cunning and dangerous monsters.

"Getting worse," Aiden muttered, pulling his hood up. Lambert nodded in acknowledgment. Better to keep their heads down and get out of the city as quickly as possible. Their horses plodded onward, cobblestones turning to compacted earth beneath their shoes as they moved between districts. Aiden had a friend in the city who had agreed to stable their mounts for a small fee. Lambert patted his horse gently on the nose while the gold changed hands, the animal's appreciative sigh sending small tendrils of steam into the cool air from its nostrils.

On foot, the witchers were much less conspicuous. It was easy for them to blend into the crowd; what were two more men in a sea of hooded figures? Only the twin swords at their backs distinguished them from the rest. Crumbling stone facades gave way to varnished wood and gilded trimmings as they approached Hierarch Square. They came to a stop in front of a richly ornamented storefront.

"Check the postings, will you?" Aiden said, gesturing at the notice board out front. "I'm going to see if I can sell off some of the junk we looted from that bandit camp last week." Without waiting for a reply, he vanished into the interior of the shop.

Lambert scanned the sheets of crinkled parchment. There were several contracts posted, some for monsters, some for mages. He selected the one with the highest reward, reasoning that it was bound to be something interesting.

_By order of the City Council, a reward has been set aside for he who would slay the beast that has been haunting the streets of Gildorf these many months. The Council has marked no fewer than fifteen recent deaths that may be attributed to this monster._

_A trophy taken from the body of the beast is required for payment. The reward shall be a sum of no less than six hundred crowns, payable on delivery of the trophy._

_For more information, please contact the district superintendent for Gildorf._

_\- Hal_  
By writ of the City Council  
Superintendent of Gildorf 

The contract gave precious little information about the job, but it did seem promising. A monster would have to be bold, and likely sentient, to hunt in the wealthy districts where the guard were thickest. Fifteen deaths--it had been at it for a while, and was careful not to get caught. Lambert grinned. He liked a challenge, and this was gearing up to be quite interesting.

His thoughts were interrupted by a twitch of his medallion. At the same time, he felt the slightest brush of something up against his pocket. He dropped the contract, whirling around to seize the pickpocket. The man wasn't fast enough; Lambert had his hand in a vice-like grip and a knife to his throat. The thief had almost managed to make off with a pouch of crowns, his captured hand still holding tight to the soft leather. Lambert bent the hand backward, baring his teeth in satisfaction as the man struggled and let out a whimper.

"Pickpocketing a witcher? Bad fucking idea, pal. Drop the coin now and I might decide not to kill you." The man stared wide-eyed for a moment before complying. The pouch of coins hit the pavement with a soft metallic clink. The thief's dirty face had a pleading expression, mixed with fear as he realized the enormity of his error in selecting a target. Lambert was enjoying drawing things out. The guards posted in the square couldn't have cared less; they were making a point of ignoring the exchange, even though Lambert's knife was still at the pickpocket's throat. He pressed his blade to the stubbled skin, a thin line of red welling up as the man's gulp of fright made the sharp edge knick his flesh.

He heard soft footsteps behind him, light as air, and Aiden materialized at his side. "Well, this looks interesting," Aiden remarked, taking in the scene. "Any particular reason you've decided to introduce yourself to the locals?"

"This one had the bright idea to try to pick my pocket. I'm educating him on exactly why that was a mistake."

"Ah." Aiden bent down and retrieved the crowns from the ground, tossing and catching the pouch a couple of times. "I hate to interrupt your lovely chat here, but we have work to do. Do you think we can skip the psychological torture?"

"Fine." Lambert withdrew the knife and sheathed it, still twisting the man's arm with his left hand. "Bit of advice for you," he said helpfully, addressing the pickpocket. "Never fucking touch me again." He shoved the man to the ground, hard. The thief scrambled to his feet and quickly absconded, vanishing into the throng of people in the square.

Lambert picked up the dropped notice and brushed the dirt from the parchment. He handed it to Aiden. "Think I found us a job."

The other witcher scanned the words quickly and then nodded. "Sounds worthwhile. Shall we?"

"After you." Lambert gestured northward, toward the heights of Gildorf.

~~~~~~

Half an hour down the line, Lambert found himself barging into the lavishly decorated office of the Gildorf superintendent with Aiden close behind him. The walls were paneled in rich wood and hung with tapestries, and platters of fruit and cheese were scattered about as if more for decoration than sustenance. An enormous window overlooked a private fountain in a courtyard; the cost of the glass alone had probably been more than they were going to get paid for this contract.

The superintendent was deep in conversation with a middle-aged man dressed in a fine doublet of black brocade. He cut his sentence short as the witchers entered the room, starting like a child who had been caught stealing sweets. Lambert stood just inside the door, waiting with crossed arms.

"We shall continue this conversation later." The man in the black doublet rose from his seat. He had a strong Nilfgaardian accent, and the cadence of his speech indicated wealth and nobility. The man exited the room, giving the witchers a nod of acknowledgement as he passed them by.

Lambert and Aiden approached the desk as the superintendent managed to shake the startled look from his face. He was a short man, squat and plump, with severely thinning brown hair and a golden doublet that appeared to be at least two sizes too small for him. His tiny eyes flicked up and down, sizing them up.

"Your eyes...you are witchers, both?" He asked, gesturing for them to sit. Aiden sank into the nearest chair, sprawling out comfortably. Lambert opted to remain standing.

"We're here about the contract you posted." Lambert dropped the parchment onto the desk. "Wanted to get the details first."

"Of course, of course.” The man mopped at the beads of sweat on his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. He hesitated. "Forgive me, but do witchers usually travel in pairs?"

"No. But based on the coin you're offering, this is a dangerous job. No reason for one of us to get killed unnecessarily by a monster we could have taken down safely together. Besides, this is faded pretty badly. Guessing you don't have a lot of other takers."

The superintendent sighed deeply. "What you say is true. A few have tried, but a few days later they turn up in the morgue. Always white as a sheet, with their faces twisted up like they'd seen the devil himself."

"Tell us about the attacks. Where and when do they happen? Who does the monster target?" Aiden said from his chair, his tone businesslike.

"No one has witnessed an attack and lived," the superintendent said, wringing his hands. "The victims have been mostly male, all wealthy residents of Gildorf. At first, we thought it was a coincidence--a few isolated deaths in their sleep. The victims are almost always found in their own homes. We had no reason to be suspicious, until..." He trailed off. Lambert raised an eyebrow, waiting silently for the man to continue. He looked uncomfortable.

"Until the beast started taking young women as well. The daughters of aristocrats, almost old enough to marry. It wasn't gentle with them--they were torn to shreds. Murders used to be unheard of in Gildorf. Records were obtained for every unexplained death in the past several years, and our coroner seems to think that they're all connected."

Lambert shot a glance to Aiden, who nodded back at him. "Fine, we'll take the job. Where can we find your coroner?"

"I believe he should be at the morgue, on the border with Silverton. There was another killing just two days ago. The mage hunters have kept him busy of late--I'd wager he likely hasn't had a chance to conduct the autopsy yet."

"Let's go, then." Lambert headed for the door, pausing to wait for Aiden to rise from his chair. As they exited the room, a woman breezed in past him. She was tall and willowy, her scarlet hair and fair complexion at odds with the violent magenta of her gown. Lambert felt his medallion twitch and turned sharply, scrutinizing the new arrival with narrowed eyes. She looked back at him with a knowing expression, as if she had felt it too.

"My diamonds, witcher." She said in a lilting soprano, indicating the sparkling stones in her earlobes. "They carry a strong enchantment meant to prevent me from coming to harm. Nothing more sordid than a bit of clever magic."

"Please excuse me, my lady," the superintendent sputtered out, bowing deeply. "Master witchers, may I introduce to you Lady Lilianna? She is a consul of the Koviri government, sent to ensure their citizens' interests here in Novigrad. We are very fortunate to have her."

The woman smiled. Something about it made Lambert intensely uncomfortable.

"Enchanted. It isn't every day one has the pleasure of meeting two witchers." Lilianna extended a slender hand and Lambert ignored it pointedly, standing with his arms crossed and watching her with suspicious eyes. Aiden stepped in and took her hand in his, bending down to press a gentle kiss to one of the many rings on her fingers.

Lambert rolled his eyes. "Hate to break up this, but we got work to do." He said pointedly, itching to get out of the fancy office. Aiden complied, but not before bowing to the noblewoman as he backed out of the room.

Once they were safely outside in the street, Lambert felt like he could breathe again. His medallion was still, and although the air was far from clean he felt his head clearing with each breath he took. He rounded on Aiden.

"Want to tell me what the fuck that was about?"

Aiden shrugged. "Never hurts to pile on the flattery when it comes to nobility. One day I might need a favor, and she might be in a position to help. You may not have any concept of diplomacy, but I do what I have to to get by."

"There's something I don't like about her."

"There's something you don't like about most people." Aiden said reproachfully. "Look, I'm just saying that if you'd occasionally stop being an asshole for five minutes, your life might be a little less difficult." He sighed. "Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"That face you make when you're mad."

"I'm not making a face." Despite the denial, Lambert knew exactly what Aiden was talking about. It was a defensive pose: arms crossed, eyes narrowed, brows knit, lips pursed.

Aiden sighed again, this time in defeat. "Fine. Let's just go to the morgue then. Maybe poking around some corpses will put you in a better mood."

~~~~~~

The path toward Silverton curved steeply downhill until it reached the iron bars of the gate to the morgue. There was a sharp contrast between the opulence of the gilded houses behind them and the thatch roofs of the cheaply constructed shacks by the dock down below.

The guard posted at the entrance to the building eyed them warily as they approached. "No admittance!" He boomed, blocking the door with his halberd and thrusting his chest out in an attempt to look intimidating.

"We're _supposed_ to be here, jackass," Lambert shot back. He spoke slowly, enunciating clearly, as if he were talking to a child. "The superintendent hired us to kill a monster. We need to see the bodies."

"I can let no one pass without written orders from the City Council!" The guard proclaimed.

"Get out of the way or I'll shove that halberd so far up your ass the point sticks out your mouth."

"Enough." Aiden stepped between them. "We do have orders from the council," he said firmly. Lambert could see his fingers discreetly forming the sign of Axii, and watched as the guard staggered slightly and shook his head like he was trying to clear water from his ears.

"Oh...aye. You may pass." He stepped out of the way, looking around at the square in confusion like he had forgotten why he was standing there in the first place. The witchers walked past him into the cool darkness of the stone passage.

Aiden stopped Lambert as soon as they were out of sight of the guard.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He demanded. For once, his calm demeanor had broken and anger was evident in his voice.

"He was pissing me off." Lambert attempted to continue down the stairs.

Aiden was faster, and darted in front of him, blocking his way. Lambert tried to shove past him, but Aiden seized him by the front of his armor and shoved him roughly up against the hard stone of the wall. Lambert struggled against his hold, but it was like trying to move a boulder. Aiden's lithe appearance was deceiving; he was far stronger than he looked.

"I said, _what the hell do you think you're doing?_ " Aiden hissed angrily. His face was mere inches from Lambert's own. Lambert could feel the heat of Aiden's breath against his neck, the brush of his curls against his forehead. Even in the dim light of the passage, his golden eyes burned like coals. Lambert slowly began to realize that he might have fucked up. He'd never seen Aiden like this before.

"You _can't_ just pick a fight with the Temple Guard. You know as well as I do that this city isn't safe for mages anymore. It's only barely safe for us! Do you want them to throw us on the pyres with the rest of the freaks?"

"I'd kill them if they tried." He was still struggling, trying to break Aiden's iron grip on him.

"Oh, that's going to work out great. One witcher against five hundred of the Hierarch's private army? Cut the shit, Lambert! Your attitude is going to get us both killed."

Aiden released him, shoving Lambert away forcefully, and continued down the stairs like nothing had happened. Lambert stood still for a moment, stunned by the outburst, and then a little ashamed at himself. Aiden was right, although he'd never admit it. He had been reckless. Lambert resolved to find a way to make it up to him later. He followed Aiden down the passage, taking care to remain several steps behind the other witcher.

The sharp scent of mildew and the sickly stench of decay assaulted his senses as they descended into the cool dampness of the morgue. Judging by the moisture and the smell, it seemed likely that it was on the same level as the sewers. It was even more dimly lit than the stairway had been, a trio of candles on a nearby table the only source of illumination in the room. The flickering flames threw up long, menacing shadows on the walls.

At first glance, it appeared that the dungeon was abandoned, but a moment later a short man appeared through a doorway. He seemed not to notice the two witchers until he almost collided with them.

"Yes, yes, what is it?" He mumbled distractedly, glancing down at the tray of glass jars he was holding.

"The Gildorf superintendent sent us. We're to examine the bodies of the most recent murder victims." Aiden replied coolly.

"Oh. Erm...the coroner isn't in today... But I suppose there's no harm in letting you look. They're back there, in the other room." He indicated the door behind him with a nod of his head, and scurried off with his tray.

The silence between Aiden and Lambert was tense. Lambert had the distinct impression he was being ignored, but reasoned that he probably deserved it. He didn't push it. He followed the other witcher into the next room, which was smaller and cast completely in darkness. He busied himself lighting the candles that were scattered about while Aiden made straight for the bodies.

There were three of them, each laid out on a rough wooden table. Two were men; one young, one old, both dressed in fine clothes. The third was an unrecognizable mass of shredded flesh and bloody cloth. It looked like a carcass that had been cut up by a particularly inexperienced butcher. Lambert approached the corpse closest to him.

It was the older of the two men. If not for the agonized expression on his face, he might have been sleeping. From his white hair and the wrinkles that lined his face deeply, Lambert estimated that he was about sixty years old. His skin was waxen, with all the color drained out of it. A vampire? Lambert turned the man's head from side to side, examining the neck for bite marks. A trickle of dark fluid ran from one of the ears. He touched a gloved finger to it and brought it up to his nose. Blood--its coppery scent still strong, temporarily overpowering the moldy dungeon air.

He cleared his throat softly. Aiden was on the other side of the room examining the shredded corpse, his back to Lambert.

"Think we might be dealing with a bruxa?"

Aiden didn't reply, but he shook his head slowly, eyes fixated on the desecrated body. Lambert walked slowly over to him, still trying to avoid getting too close.

The body was barely recognizable as human. The face had been clawed away entirely, the bones of the front of the skull crushed into minute fragments. The scalp had been torn off. From the general shape, Lambert was fairly sure that it had once been a woman. The few areas of unmarred skin were smooth and unwrinkled, suggesting youth. The breasts and genitalia had been mutilated beyond all recognition.

"An alp. Great." Lambert let a sigh out through his teeth. He would rather fight the bruxa. Alps thrived in cities like this--plenty of prey, and plenty of places to hide. It was easy for them to blend in.

"A jealous one, at that." Aiden replied, finally relenting on the silence. "I've never seen one this bad before."

"This is going to suck."

Aiden chuckled darkly. "I suppose it will, in one way or another. Seen everything you need to see?"

"Yeah. Let's get out of here." 

The scent of smoke and rainwater was a balm to his senses as they ascended to street level. Lambert strode past the guard, who still appeared to be under the effects of Aiden’s hex and was holding his halberd by the wrong end. He let Aiden lead the way through the winding streets, remaining silent as he followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by my wonderful fiance, who doesn't have an AO3 account.
> 
> Note: although it's never confirmed what school Coën hails from, he's described as being the same age as Lambert and I'd like to think that he's a Wolf.


	7. The City of Fire and Blood

As the witchers approached Hierarch Square, a tower of black smoke rose high above the rooftops. Lambert could hear the screams and jeers of a large crowd from several streets away. It was obvious what the commotion was about as they passed through. Two enormous pyres had been erected in the center of the plaza, a sizable stake protruding upward from the center of each. One of the pyres had been lit for a while and was nearly spent. Through the flames, Lambert could just make out a humanoid shape, already burnt almost to ash. The second, judging by the energy of the crowd, had just been lit. A woman was chained to the stake, struggling against the metal as the flames licked ever higher.

The fire leapt to her skirt and caught fast, hungrily devouring the fabric of her clothing to get at the flesh beneath. She tried to remain silent at first, moans of pain occasionally escaping her lips, but then the flames began to burn away her skin and she began to scream. The pain tore the sounds from her throat, guttural and full of animal desperation. She tore at the chains desperately, clawing at them even as the white hot metal scalded her hands, and then abruptly stopped struggling as she succumbed.

Lambert closed his eyes. Times were indeed changing. He could remember when mages flocked to Novigrad to ply their trade and were welcomed in with open arms. Not much was left of that world. He turned his back to the grotesque display and kept walking. Aiden followed, hood tugged forward to hide his face.

They walked in silence the rest of the way to the Nowhere Inn. Lambert felt an odd sort of relief as the crumbling and uneven stone walls of the Bits rose around them. They were safe here; forgotten amongst a sea of thieves and beggars. He stood idly by while Aiden haggled with the plump innkeep for a room for the night. He stared at the meat roasting on a spit over the fire; the smell reminded him of the burning woman's screams echoing out over the square. He suddenly felt sick. Breathing in and out slowly through his nose, he waited for the feeling to pass, and then interrupted Aiden's conversation to tell him he was going out to buy alchemy supplies. They were going to need every edge they could get to fight the alp.

The air was clearer near Glory Lane. In the time that it had taken Lambert to trek back across the city, the smoke from the pyres had almost dispersed, leaving nothing more than a grey smudge against the darkening sky as a memento of the earlier immolation. The herbalist's shop had most of what he needed to prepare the potions and oils they would need to eliminate the vampire. The sewant mushrooms were a bit bruised, but they would suffice to brew Black Blood. He bought out the merchant's stock of ducal water and quicksilver, and topped off his supply of saltpeter while he was at it.

The weight of the cloth-wrapped parcel was reassuring in his hands as he trudged back. Making preparations felt good. Lambert was a far better alchemist than Aiden, and it pleased him to no end that his potions always came out perfectly while Aiden's frequently had little to no effect aside from poisoning the drinker. Besides, he needed the distraction; if he stood still for too long his thoughts always caught up with him, and they rarely went anywhere happy.

He went directly upstairs when he returned to the inn and easily located the room Aiden was in. Lambert had been traveling with Aiden for long enough that the tread of his footsteps, often the softest sound in the room, had become the most immediately obvious to him. He entered to find Aiden sitting on the bed, carefully honing the edge of his silver sword with a whetstone. He carefully placed his parcel down on the small table in the corner and began unwrapping it.

"Black Blood?" Aiden said inquisitively, wrinkling his nose at the sulfurous scent of the mushrooms.

"And Vampire Oil, and Moon Dust. I don't want to take any chances with this."

"Excellent." Aiden said approvingly, setting the whetstone aside. "Have you given any thought as to how we might go about tracking the alp down? There are a thousand places in this city she could be hiding. Just because she has a taste for noblemen doesn't necessarily mean we'll find her nearby."

"Nope, she'll be there." Lambert said confidently, mixing the mushrooms with several measures of ghoul's blood and suspending the vial over a candle to simmer. "You saw the girl's body. Said it yourself, she's the jealous type. Alp probably went after her because she got too close to one of her other targets. I'd bet my left testicle she's right there in the middle of it all, watching."

Aiden snorted. "Why the left one, specifically?"

"Already bet the right one that the ogre was going to squash us both like grapes. Almost wish I'd won that wager, would've been less torture than having to put up with your company." 

Aiden retaliated to the dig by hurling a cushion at him. It sailed through the air and struck Lambert squarely on the side of the head. Lambert grinned. Things were definitely less depressing with Aiden around. He knew he wasn't entirely forgiven for his earlier outburst, but in time things would smooth over. The tension he'd been carrying in his gut all day suddenly eased. 

"So what's the plan?" Aiden said, picking up his steel sword to begin sharpening it. 

"The potions are going to take a few hours. I don't really want to get caught with my dick out, so I'd prefer to wait until they're done before we do anything else."

"It'll be morning by then. We could go have a look around the places she attacked."

"Guards probably trampled over all the tracks by now. We're not going to find much."

"You vastly underestimate my abilities." Aiden said and winked, eliciting an exasperated sigh from Lambert. 

"By the way, did you happen to rent a second room?"

"No. Figured you were about to spend most of our coin on ingredients, and if this job goes south we'll need all the crowns we have to get ourselves patched up and to another city. You'll thank me later."

"So who gets the bed?"

Aiden shrugged. "Game of Gwent to decide?"

Aiden's skills were improving, and he managed to decimate Lambert's army in the first two rounds. Although he made a show of pouting about sleeping on the floor, Lambert was secretly pleased. The evening passed in an uneventful fashion, Lambert preoccupied with brewing his potions and Aiden humming to himself softly as he scraped the whetstone along the sharp of his blade. The tune was in a minor key, something mournful and haunting. It drifted through Lambert's mind as he lay back on the floor, the grey fog of sleep slowly overtaking him.

Lambert pitched through fitful dreams like a lost ship on a roiling sea. None of them were quite solid; just snippets of larger nightmares flitting by. His father's fist raised in a drunken rage. The walls of Kaer Morhen rising before him as he returned from the Trial of the Medallion, coated in slime and the blood of his friends. A bruxa's inhuman laugh as her claws sank into the side of his face. A witcher's eyes in the darkness, and the glint of a crossbow bolt.

And then there was nothingness. He floated aimlessly in the quiet for a time, and then he was falling, falling far and fast until he found himself in an unfamiliar bed, someone's lips pressed against his own. A strong hand was cupping his face, the weight of the other person's body spread out across his lap. He leaned into the warmth of the embrace, unquestioning. His arms were around the small of the person's back, palms pressed to smooth flesh. He slid one hand up to his lover's neck and his fingers probed inquisitively at something marring the skin there. As the pad of Lambert's thumb skipped across the lines of the scar, realization flooded through him. His eyes flew open to see Aiden's own golden irises looking softly back at him from under heavy lids. Aiden grinned as Lambert pulled back from the kiss in confusion, scrambling to make sense of the situation. 

As quickly as the dream had come, it began to dissolve around him. Lambert awoke to the sensation of someone shaking him gently by his shoulder and shot bolt upright, finding himself only inches from Aiden's face. He was still where he'd fallen asleep, lying on the rough planks of the inn floor. Aiden was fully clothed and standing, one gloved hand on Lambert's shoulder. 

The dream had faded, but Lambert could still feel Aiden's legs straddling his hips. With dawning horror, he realized that his cock was hard as stone. He hoped desperately that Aiden couldn't tell through the layers of armor he was still wearing. What in the fuck was that dream?

"It's dawn. We should get moving." Aiden said softly. "I think your potion might be about to burn as well."

"Shit." Lambert rubbed the sleep from his eyes and extinguished the candle. It had almost burnt itself out anyway; wax was pooled on the table all around its base. He bottled the Black Blood and slipped the vials carefully into his pockets, shoving any thoughts about his dreams roughly to the back of his mind. He was too tired and too sober to even begin trying to process what it all meant.

~~~~~~

It had rained during the night, and Novigrad glistened with a thin sheen of water in the morning sun. For a moment it looked as if all the grime and sins of the city had been washed away by the storm, but the illusion was shattered quickly once the townspeople began to go about their daily business.

The witchers were picking their way through the streets of Gildorf, turning over stones in the hopes of finding something that might lead them to the vampire. They weren't having a great deal of luck, however, and Lambert was on edge after the previous night's events. It wasn't long before he snapped at Aiden one time too many, and the other witcher decided that it would be better if they split up to cover more ground. All the better, from Lambert's perspective. Being so close to Aiden all morning kept calling up intrusive memories from his dreams. He needed space to breathe so he could focus.

It wasn't hard to tell which homes belonged to the recently deceased. The lack of guards outside and thin film of dust on the windows was all that Lambert needed to confirm that one of the expensive townhouses had been abandoned in a hurry. He waited until the guards in the square had their backs turned, and then used Aard to smash the glass. 

The interior of the house was as dark and dusty as the exterior. Not much had been disturbed recently, which was good news for him. Some evidence might still be intact. He crept up the stairs in search of a bedchamber, finding one immediately off the landing on the second floor. A cursory examination told him that it wasn't where the death had occurred--the bed was neatly made, and the room looked as if it had been prepared for a guest. The other room on the second floor contained nothing but books.

He ascended to the third floor, which contained only one enormous bedchamber. He knew at once that he was in the right place. The bedclothes were stained and torn asunder, and he could see the footprints of many different people in the blood that had congealed on the floor around the bed. The guards must have swarmed the house once the woman's body had been discovered. 

He knelt by the bed and ran a finger through the sanguine fluid. It was sticky and thick, but had been spilled fairly recently. Recently enough that the scent of it still hung heavy in the air, coppery and sweet. The scent trail could potentially lead him to the alp, or at least to her next destination. 

It told him easily enough how the alp had entered and exited the house without being seen. A window at the opposite end of the bedroom had a broken lock on it. When he looked closely, he could see a mark where a claw had dug deeply into the wood of the frame. He opened the window and stepped out onto a small ledge. 

The ledge ran the length of the row of townhouses, and then stopped. Lambert looked out across the alley and saw the next rooftop; higher up, and much steeper. Quite an easy jump for an alp to make, but challenging for a witcher. He cursed violently before backing up several paces and making a running leap across the gap. 

His fingertips caught onto the edge of the roof, if only by a hair's breadth. He hauled himself up and grinned, looking down at the street below. The trail was still strong, and he followed the metallic odor across the roofs of several buildings and down a buttress to the street level. The scent grew weaker there, muddled by the earthiness of the puddles of rainwater and the incense drifting on the breeze that blew in from Temple Isle. It mattered little, though, because he seemed to have reached its end. The vampire had entered another home on the square, this time through the front door. 

This house was exceptionally ornate, its facade plated in gold that refracted the light of the sun in such a way that it looked as if the building was engulfed in holy fire. Lambert could hear no signs of life inside. He used Aard once more to break the glass in the window so he could gain access to the interior.

"Oi--you there! Halt in the name of the Eternal Fire!" 

Lambert found himself suddenly surrounded by Temple Guard. He raised his hand to the hilt of his sword but dropped it a moment later, realizing that it was futile to attempt to fight when he was so outnumbered. He scanned the square for Aiden, but saw no sign of his chestnut locks amongst the crowd. He groaned internally; he was going to have to talk his way out of this one. 

"What do you think you're doing, freak?" The leader of the group spat at him.

"My job. I was hired to investigate some killings on behalf of the City Council. I had reason to believe that the murderer was inside this house." Lambert gestured to the window.

The man scoffed. "That house belongs to a consul of the Koviri government. I find it hard to believe that you would find any common killer here."

"Not a common killer. A monster. You know what I am. Tracking and killing these things is my specialty, and I'm telling you that that a monster was _definitely_ in there. If you care so much about the safety of your consul, you should let me go and make sure it didn't murder her, too."

"Nice try, mutant. Your kind are all liars. You're going to come with us."

"The hell I am!" Lambert said indignantly. 

"You've damaged this house. Paperwork needs to be filed, and fines paid. Unless you'd rather stay here and die," the guard said, sneering. "I've no qualms ridding the world of another abomination."

Lambert looked around again for Aiden, but he was still absent. There were far too many of them to for him to use Axii to escape.

"Fine." He said through his teeth. "My swords stay with me, though. Anyone who touches them is getting his hands sliced off. Clear?" His tone made it plain that it was not an empty threat. 

The guard looked as if he were going to protest, but thought better of it and nodded. He and his men escorted Lambert out of the square and toward the bridge to Temple Isle. In the distance, Lambert could see smoke rising from the Temple of the Eternal Fire. He followed the men sullenly away from the golden house and into the labyrinth of the upper city.

~~~~~~

It was dark and damp in the dungeons on Temple Isle. Lambert was starting to suspect that the whole damn city was made of mildew. He kicked at the bars of his cell and cursed. The guards had been true to their word and let him keep his swords, but had confiscated everything else from him, including and his potions and bombs. The whole thing had been a setup all along; they had only asked him to pay the fine _after_ they had confiscated his coin, and being as he no longer had the means to pay, they had locked him up.

Lambert had already attempted to cast Axii on the guard outside his cell twice, but the man was somehow so thick-skulled that the hex couldn't catch hold. He leaned against the wall and slid to a sitting position, cursing his predicament with every word of profanity at his disposal. What a mess.

Unbidden, the sensation of Aiden's lips pressed against his own jumped to the forefront of his mind. Lambert inhaled sharply, his face flushing at the memory. In here, there was nowhere to run from his thoughts. He was disconcerted by the implications of the dream. He'd never thought of Aiden in that way before. It wasn't that he'd never known men--there had been many over the years. Even a werewolf, once, although he'd been in human form at the time. And it wasn't that Aiden was unattractive--in fact, quite the opposite. It was the way that Lambert had surrendered himself to the contact, leaned into it, wanted it, even. He wasn't certain if the dream was showing him something he already subconsciously desired, or if it was simply a product of spending too much time alone with Aiden and a lack of recent partners.

He closed his eyes for a moment and stopped fighting the memory, letting it wash over him fully. The light brush of Aiden's beard against his face, the knowing look in his eyes, the heat of his legs against Lambert's hips. The skin of his torso, surprisingly smooth. Lambert felt heat pool in his abdomen at the memory and forced himself to stop thinking about it, staring at the slime-covered wall of his cell until the pang of arousal faded. He was so _fucked_.

"I do hope I'm not interrupting." A lilting female voice broke through his reverie. Lambert scrambled to his feet. Outside his cell stood the Koviri noblewoman they had met at the Superintendent's office the previous day, her coiffed red hair and expensive dress extremely out of place in the filthy Temple Isle dungeons. An elaborate net of diamonds hung from her neck. Lambert felt his medallion give the slightest twitch.

He stared openly at the woman, one eyebrow raised inquisitively. "What do you want from me?"

"The guards have informed me that you were apprehended while trying to enter my home." She seemed almost amused by the thought. "I thought I might come pay you a visit."

"Any particular reason why?"

"I wanted to look into your eyes," she said, peering at him like he was some sort of insect. "So that I could know what sort of man I was dealing with." 

Lambert was silent. He glowered at her through the bars as she approached his cell, stopping inches away from him. She brushed a loose strand of hair carefully back from her face. 

"Your fines have been paid. Your friend is just outside, waiting to collect you."

"Why would you do that?"

"Call it curiosity. I've found this city so boring of late." She leaned in as closely as she could with the bars between them, her crimson lips against his ear. "You want me, witcher?" She whispered, her voice taking on an inhuman quality as she spoke. "Come find me." 

The last words were almost a hiss. All the hairs on Lambert's neck stood up as a chill ran down his spine. His medallion was vibrating in earnest now. A sinking feeling formed in his stomach as he realized how vulnerable he was--caged, without his potions and oils, like a pig for the slaughter.

The alp withdrew her lips with a shrill laugh. Her smile was ghastly as she backed away from the bars.

"Come to my home tonight. This time you shall find the doors quite open." 

The woman seemed to glide across the room to the exit. As soon as she was out of sight, Lambert released the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. She'd had the opportunity to eliminate him easily, but she hadn't. And why? Because she was bored. She wanted to play with her food before she ate it. They weren't getting paid nearly enough for this.

He heard Aiden's soft footsteps approaching and stepped back from the cell door so the guard could unlock it. Seeing Aiden's familiar face was an enormous relief after the events of the past several hours. Lambert saw him giving him a questioning look; his own expression must have been very strange. He shook his head and indicated that they would speak when they were back aboveground. He collected his belongings--they had been rifled through, but nothing was missing--and hurriedly made for the exit.

He took Aiden aside in the first empty alleyway they passed and filled him in on what had transpired. Aiden appeared shocked by the revelation that they had encountered the alp already, and then annoyed that Lambert had figured things out before he had. 

"So what now?" Aiden asked, after taking a moment to consider the new information.

"Dunno. I mean--we know exactly who and where she is. But this is definitely a fucking trap."

"She's going to stay in there until we come for her, isn't she?"

"Probably." Lambert folded his arms. "Don't see another way, unfortunately. We're not going to catch her by surprise."

Aiden nodded in agreement. "So we go in, fully loaded with potions and oils, and hope for the best. Not very promising."

"When are our contracts ever promising?" Lambert said darkly. The sun was beginning to sink below the horizon. 

"Fair enough." Aiden chuckled. "Alright, let's go prepare. We've got an alp to exterminate."

~~~~~~

It was strange, the way the city transformed itself at night--like an elegant courtier who lifted her skirts after dusk for any with the coin to pay. The creatures of the underworld crawled out from the shadows to ply their trades. The fisstech dealers, the smugglers, the whores, the bandits, the rapists--all different threads of a vast criminal web that ran through every street and alleyway.

The gilded house was transformed, too, in the waning light. Instead of reflecting holy fire, the light of the braziers in the square caused the metal to take on the rusty hue of old blood. The dark windows in the facade stared outward like empty eye sockets. The pane that Lambert had shattered hours before had not been covered up; shards of broken glass twinkled on the ground below. 

The witchers paused in front of the door. Lambert felt a churning sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with the Black Blood they had drunk moments before. He glanced at Aiden, the other witcher's face pallid and threaded with dark streaks along the path of his veins--a side effect of the potion. They both looked like the walking dead. Aiden nodded at him, reassurance in his eyes. They were as ready as they were ever going to be.

The door was unlocked, as Lilianna had promised. It swung open with the lightest touch of his hand. The interior of the house was shrouded in darkness. The witchers crept through it silently, ears pricked for the slightest sound. All was silent. They made their way through the first floor without incident. 

At the rear of the house, a door stood ominously open. It led outside, to a large garden with high stone walls that shielded it from the view of passersby. Lambert could hear the burbling of a fountain and the rustling of leaves beyond. It was obvious that the vampire was waiting for them there. He tightened his grip on his silver sword, keeping his guard up as he proceeded out into the night.

Lilianna was indeed lying in wait for them among the greenery. She sat in a suggestive position on the brim of the fountain, dressed only in a revealing negligee. She was drinking disinterestedly from a golden goblet, the liquid inside viscous and dark. 

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," she purred, rising gracefully to her feet. "Life in this city has grown so dull." 

She approached the witchers, feet hardly seeming to touch the cobblestones as she moved. Lambert gritted his teeth and raised his sword, prepared to counter her strike.

Instead, she raised her slender hands to the neck of her gown, untying the delicate ribbons that held it together. The silk fell from her body in a fluid motion, and she stood bare before the two of them. Her scarlet hair fluttered in the night breeze. 

"What's wrong, witcher?" She said, eyeing Lambert seductively. "Don't like what you see?" Her voice deepened as she spoke, taking on the inhuman quality he'd heard in the dungeons that made his blood run cold. She smiled, and her teeth were sharp as needles. Her fingernails lengthened into claws, and the skin of her face drew back tight to her bones. 

Lambert wasn't one to draw things out. He lashed out at the alp with his sword, but the silver cut through empty air where she had been standing an instant before. A high-pitched laugh echoed through the garden. He whirled on his heel, but saw no sign of her. 

Aiden was still behind him, listening intently for any movement. Simultaneously, they heard the snap of a twig in the tree at the center of the garden. Aiden pulled one of the Moon Dust bombs from his belt and hurled it at a large branch about halfway up. It exploded against the bark of the trunk, sending a hurricane of silver particles scattering through the night air. They slowly settled, coating the entire garden in glitter. Lambert could taste the metal on his tongue.

Perched on the branch above was the alp, the curves of her form outlined by the sparkling dust. She hissed and leapt into the air, so high that they momentarily lost sight of her. She landed directly in front of Lambert, claws raised to slice at him with unbridled fury. He parried blow after blow with the flat of his blade, the attacks coming so rapidly that he couldn't get in a single riposte. She was practically teleporting around him as they fought, always inches from his body when she reappeared. It was as if they were dancing, framed by the light of the moon.

Lambert used his left hand to block and attempted to knock the vampire to the ground with the Aard sign. She dodged the blast and smiled at him tauntingly, the expression horrible on her face. She shrieked, the sound of it so shrill and painful he found himself momentarily stunned. A searing pain tore through his head, and he felt warm fluid trickling from his ears. He cursed violently, the sound of his own voice dampened by his ruptured eardrums. 

Aiden charged the alp from the rear, sword raised to spear her in the back. She vanished as the blade was about to pierce her skin and reappeared behind Aiden, sinking her claws into the shoulder of his armor to hold him in place. He struggled against her, but her grip held firm. She bit into his neck, teeth sinking deeply into the scarred flesh. Aiden let out a strangled cry as she drank deeply from him.

The sound broke through Lambert's daze. He bared his teeth in rage and drew the sign of Aard again, this time slamming the alp hard in the chest. She was thrown away from Aiden, who stumbled, clutching at the bleeding wound on his neck. He let out a low gasp of pain, but got back to his feet and raised his sword with his other hand. 

The alp was only briefly affected by the sign. She wiped her mouth and laughed, the sound of it harsh and grating. The pitch of her voice rose into a scream as the Black Blood began to take effect. Lambert quickly covered his ears to shield them from further damage. Lines of black branched rapidly out from her mouth across her pale skin as she writhed in agony. Lambert launched himself at her, spinning into a vicious attack that managed to slice off the vampire's hand at the wrist just before she vanished. She was getting tired. He forced himself to focus. She was only going to get more dangerous now that she was wounded. 

As if on cue, the alp dropped down from the tree above and slashed at him, rending the flesh on his thigh before vanishing again. It seared with pain, and blood began to flow freely down his leg. Lambert snarled, spinning around to swing his blade at the space directly behind him. The alp wasn't anticipating the blow, which caught her in the chest, opening up a massive wound. She staggered back, hissing angrily. He tried to spin into another attack, but his injured leg crumpled beneath him when he put weight on it. The alp launched herself back toward him, claws poised to strike a finishing blow.

Aiden erupted from the shadows and tackled her away from Lambert, throwing down an Yrden sign where they landed. The trap ensnared her, pinning her to the cobblestone like an insect on a display board. Aiden stood over the trapped vampire, sword held above his head in preparation to strike.

"Any last words?" He said, the words almost a snarl. She hissed something venomous at him in a language Lambert didn't understand.

"Didn't think so." Aiden plunged the silver blade down into her chest, piercing her heart. The alp seized up and then abruptly stopped moving.

Aiden walked over to Lambert and offered him a hand. He hauled the witcher to his feet and into a rough embrace, both of them still clutching the hilts of their silver swords. When they pulled apart, Aiden had a grin on his face. They were both smeared with blood--each others', and the alp's. Knife in hand, Aiden strode over to the corpse and decapitated it with one efficient stroke of the blade. Lambert glanced at the body; it had transformed in death back into that of Lilianna. In the light of day, it would wither until it crumbled into ash.

They made use of the water in the fountain to wash and clean their wounds. Aiden's neck was already mending. Lambert's leg would require some alchemical help, but it would heal too. He was going to have a new scar to remember this contract by, though. Bandaged and exhausted, the witchers made their way back through the house and into the street it seemed they'd left an eternity ago. 

Lambert looked out over the city. The eternal fire burned on, the populace unaware of the danger that had been living just inches from their doorsteps. Some things never changed. In the morning, they would be paid, they would collect their horses, and they would ride out for some other city to slay some other terror. He glanced at Aiden. Silver particles glistened in his chestnut hair, and his eyes were surrounded by dark circles. Blood dripped slowly from the head hanging from his trophy hook. 

The monsters, the contracts, the disgust of villagers--these had been his constants for decades. The world changed, but a witcher's life was always pretty much the same. Aiden was a new variable, something he had failed to foresee in all his years on the Path. As they made their way in silence through the cobbled streets, he wondered darkly how much more was going to change in the coming months. The soft crackling of the omnipresent flames surrounded them as they walked off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a double update! I hope it was worth the wait. Novigrad is my absolute favorite location in the Witcher universe and I really got sucked into this arc. Drop me a comment--I'd love to hear what you think!


	8. A Thief of Virtue

The witchers opted to remain in Novigrad for a few days to lick their wounds. Lambert was glad for the respite; as much as he hated the city, he hated the idea of several hours in the saddle with a torn quadricep more. His leg healed slowly, but faster than it might have if he were an ordinary man. He was feeling like himself again on the third day after the fight.

The first thing Lambert had done after getting paid was to rent his own room at the Nowhere. He was sick of sleeping on the ground, and he was scared of what Aiden might hear him say if he started talking in his sleep. He spent the days drinking and playing cards with a variety of shady individuals that frequented the tavern. He found that being intoxicated impacted his Gwent prowess very little, and managed to expand his deck quite a bit.

Aiden was nowhere to be found. Not content with sitting idle, he had ventured out into the city to check up on some old friends and to try to sniff out some light work for the two of them. Contracts were surprisingly thin on the ground, though, and he’d return each night frustrated, having found no new leads for them to follow.

Lambert didn’t mind the periods of separation. Sleeping in a different room had done nothing to stifle his thoughts. He dreamed about Aiden more often than not, and would awaken each morning frustrated and confused. Rather than trying to puzzle through his feelings, he found himself avoiding spending time alone with Aiden. Citing his injured leg, he went to bed first each night and didn’t come down to the tavern for breakfast until he was sure that the other witcher had already left for the day.

On the fourth morning, Lambert decided he’d had enough. He made an excuse to go out and headed for the upper city, pointedly ignoring the glares and sounds of disgust the wealthy townsfolk made as he passed by. The gilded house on the square stood empty, practically looted bare. He felt a sort of grim satisfaction as he passed it by. His leg was almost back to full function, nothing left of the original injury but a twisted scar and the ghost of a limp.

He could hear the peaceful sounds of water trickling in a fountain nearby as the Passiflora rose up in front of him, as stately and elegant as he remembered it. Even early in the morning, the brothel was doing a roaring trade. The large salons downstairs were filled with wealthy patrons, both men and women. Courtesans in tasteful yet revealing clothing wove their way through the crowd, offering drinks and food on platters. One of them purred in his ear, a slender hand trailing down his arm as she slipped past him. Lambert grinned to himself. This was his kind of place.

The madam was easy to locate, standing in the center of the action and watching the operation like a hawk. After some quick haggling, she pointed him upstairs. “Try Amrynn,” she said, a knowing smile on her face. “I’d wager she’s your type.”

The blonde elf woman he encountered at the top landing was certainly beautiful. She stood defiantly in the middle of all the human finery, pointed ears bared for all to see. There was an easy confidence in her eyes that Lambert found very appealing. Coin changed hands and she led him away, out of the bustle of the crowded salon to a quiet, well-appointed room on the top floor. She divested him of his armor and eased him into a steaming bath scented with white flowers.

Lambert leaned into Amrynn’s touch as she expertly massaged the dirt and oil from his hair. Her skilled hands worked their way down to his shoulders, releasing knots of tension he hadn’t even realized were there. He hummed in appreciation. The woman said nothing—she seemed to know implicitly that he didn’t want to talk.

Though he could have lain in the warm water for hours, Lambert eventually decided that he was as clean as he was ever going to be. He rose from the the bath, dripping water across the oaken floor as he stepped out of the tub. Amrynn handed him a towel, but he tossed it aside. He didn’t care if he got water everywhere. He placed his hands on the woman’s waist and lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around him as he carried her to the bed.

The green garment that barely concealed her charms was designed to come off easily. Lambert pulled on a single tie, and the whole thing slid from her body in one fluid motion. Her skin was smooth and hairless, her breasts pleasingly round and pale as cream. He lowered his head to kiss her nipple, growling in response to her sharp intake of air. He dragged his lips across her skin and up her neck, pressing a rough kiss to her mouth. She smiled into it, one slender hand entwining itself in his wet hair.

Lambert put his hands on Amrynn’s hips and used the leverage to pull her closer to him, her velvety skin brushing against his stiffening cock. A groan escaped his throat. She was skilled, and eager, and it had been far too long since he’d indulged in something like this. He took himself in hand to guide his way as he lined himself up with her before thrusting once into the slick heat of her cunt.

It was almost too much to bear. Lambert stilled for a moment, panting, as he waited for the shock of the feeling to fade. Amrynn wrapped herself around him, hands clinging to his shoulders and legs crossed behind his back. She rolled her hips, taking him deeper inside, and the sensation jolted him out of his daze. He growled and began thrusting hard into her, all the frustration of the last few days pouring out of him. He fucked her like he was going to die tomorrow, using his hips to take advantage of his full length.

His breath was coming rapidly, and beads of sweat joined the water droplets that were still present on his temples. Amrynn dug her nails into the meat of his shoulder and moaned. She was thrusting back at him in earnest, now, and he could feel her tightening around him until he almost couldn’t bear it any longer. And then she was coming, a cry escaping her lips as the legs that were still wrapped around him trembled. He could feel her contracting rhythmically around his cock.

Unbidden, an image of Aiden jumped to the forefront of his mind. The witcher’s muscular arms were wrapped around him, his forehead pressed hard against Lambert’s, his sharp teeth biting Lambert’s lower lip. Already too far gone to do any sort of reasoning, Lambert gave himself over to the moment, imagining that it was Aiden’s body under him instead, Aiden’s dark, honey-smooth voice groaning in his ear. A jolt went through him, as though he’d been shocked by lightning. The tension that had been building in him came to its peak, and he tumbled over the edge as pleasure shot through him. He gripped Amrynn’s tiny waist as he thrust into her irregularly and then collapsed, spent, eyes closed and mind blank.

After what felt like an eternity, he rolled away and sat on the edge of the bed, fighting the wave of sleep that threatened to pull him under. Amrynn arose and passed him the towel he had discarded earlier to clean himself up with. His body was relaxed, but his head was pounding; he could hear every word and footstep downstairs in the salon. Wanting to get away from the noise, he dressed quickly and made a hasty exit.

The cool air did little to soothe his aching temples. Regret washed over Lambert as he trudged down the stairs into the slums of the city. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why was he thinking of his best friend while in the bed of a beautiful and willing woman? Aiden would probably be disgusted if he knew. His cheeks burned hot as he remembered the fantasy, so fresh and tangible in his head. He had gone to the Passiflora hoping for an easy end to his problems, but now he suspected that the dreams were a symptom of another, larger issue.

 

~~~~~~

The sun hung low in the sky when Lambert arrived back at the tavern. Aiden was already back, sitting casually at a corner table and nursing a pint of ale. Lambert joined him, the wooden legs of the bench scraping across the floor as he pulled it close to the table. Aiden gave him a quizzical look for a moment and then smirked. Lambert face flushed as he realized he smelled like sex and white flowers. Of course Aiden knew where he’d been.

Mercifully, the other witcher said nothing about it. Instead, he slid a crisp sheet of parchment across the table. “New contract?” Lambert inquired, grateful for the distraction.

“Yeah. No idea what the pay is, but it’s all I could dig up. Should be an easy job, just cleaning up a couple bandit camps. We’ll have to ride to Oxenfurt, though.”

“Fine by me. I fuckin’ hate this city.” The innkeep placed a mug of stout in front of Lambert as she passed by the table. He took a long draught and hummed appreciatively. “That being said, this place has damn good beer.”

“Damn cheap, too. Why do you think I come here?”

“Thought it had something to do with the charming locale.”

Aiden threw back his head and laughed. “Well. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Lambert’s ears burned. He glared at Aiden, who was completely unfazed by his fiery stare. Desperate for something to do with his hands, he upended his mug, draining it dry. He choked on the last swallow, sputtering and turning an even brighter shade of red. Aiden sat back and watched the display with an amused expression on his face.

It took a few minutes for Lambert to regain his breath. “When do we leave?” he wheezed out, tears streaming from his eyes.

“Tomorrow, if you’re ready.”

Lambert nodded.

“Wonderful.” Aiden rose from the bench and left a few crowns on the table. “Think I’ll turn in. We’ve a long ride ahead of us.” He clapped Lambert on the back as he passed by, heading out of sight and up the stairs. Lambert stared at the wall for a moment before following.

 

~~~~~~

As the witchers journeyed toward Oxenfurt, it was clear why the notice had been posted. They passed several ransacked and abandoned carts on the main road, the amount of debris increasing steadily as they drew closer to the city. More than one of the sites was surrounded by bloodstained dirt, and there was evidence of recent necrophage activity nearby. Overall, it appeared to be a pretty standard bandit operation, albeit a large one. The broken carts stopped appearing around the time they passed the first group of Redanian soldiers patrolling the outskirts of the city.

The walls surrounding Oxenfurt were high and strong. An enormous banner bearing the Redanian eagle fluttered over their heads as they rode across the bridge. Red brick buildings and elaborate framed houses decorated with turrets filled the small city, settling in against each other to create a network of looping streets and alleyways that likely didn’t even make sense to the natives. In the near distance, Lambert could hear bells tolling at the Oxenfurt Academy. They tied up their horses and ventured into the city on foot. Lambert followed close on Aiden’s heels, savoring the opportunity to stretch his legs after the long ride.

They made it about halfway down the street that ran alongside the harbor before being accosted by a hysterical woman. She practically launched herself toward them, falling to her knees at Lambert’s feet and holding onto his boot. Caught off guard, his hand flew to his blade and had half-drawn it before he processed that she wasn’t an immediate threat. Lambert tried to kick his leg out of her grasp, but she held tight.

“What the hell is your problem?” he demanded, struggling against her hold. The woman looked up at him, her eyes wild and her face stained with tears.

“Master witchers,” she wailed, “you have to help me!”

“Uhhh—” Lambert was still trying to extricate his boot from her tangle of limbs.

“What’s the matter?” Aiden said, squatting down so that the woman was at his eye level.

“M-m-my husband!” she cried. “He’s going to leave m-m-me!”

“That’s hardly— a witcher’s— problem!” Lambert said, his sentence punctuated with grunts as he yanked on his leg.

“Take a deep breath,” Aiden said, in a calm and commanding voice. His fingers discreetly formed the sign of Axii. The woman’s eyes went unfocused for a moment, and then she complied, breathing deeply and evenly. “Good. Now, tell me exactly what happened.”

“My man came home from work yesterday,” she began, her face flat and inflection monotone. “We was foolin’ around upstairs, same as any other night. He was sayin’ that he loved me. Everythin’ was wonderful.”

“And then?” Aiden prodded.

“An’ then, my husband walked in. Started screamin’ and throwin’ things about, said we were through, and stormed out.”

Aiden’s brow knit. “I thought you said you were in bed with your husband.”

“I was. But then his double walked in the door. Like lookin’ in a mirror, it were. And then the one in bed with me _changed _,__ and suddenly he were a different man. Now my husband shuns me and calls me whore, but I swear, I never was unfaithful! It was some kind of…changelin’. You have to believe me! I’ll give you everythin’ I have, just help me catch the bastard!” The pitch of her voice began to rise as the hex wore off.

Aiden looked up at Lambert. “Sounds like a doppler.”

Lambert sighed in exasperation. “Yeah. Not easy to hunt, though, and definitely not worth our time. Help get her off me!”

Aiden shook his head, a twinkle of mirth in his eye. “Oh, no. This is important, Lambert. A woman’s reputation is at stake! How could a noble witcher possibly stand idly by? Don’t worry,” he said, patting Lambert on the back. “I’ll handle the bandits. I’m sure you’ll have your hands full here. Meet you at the Alchemy later!” He strode away down the docks, already disappearing into the crowd.

“Aiden, wait—at least make her let go of my damn leg!” Lambert yelled at his retreating back.

Aiden turned for a moment, gave him a mocking salute, and then was gone.

“Great,” Lambert groaned. He looked down at the blubbering mess that was still wrapped around his calf and swore to himself that the next time he saw Aiden he was going to kick his ass halfway to Nilfgaard.

 

__~~~~~~_ _

  
Lambert rubbed his temples hard with his knuckles. Not knowing what else to do with the distraught woman, he’d coaxed her back to the Alchemy Inn and left her at the bar with a strong drink in hand. It had taken her a while to calm down enough to even say her own name without sobbing, but once Margaret regained her composure she proved herself to be helpful. She had given him some leads to follow—two other women who claimed that they had also been tricked into bed by a man pretending to be their husband. With nothing else to do, Lambert resigned himself to chasing them down.  


He was pretty sure that the first woman was lying about the whole thing. Her story was nebulous and the details kept changing; she was obviously using the idea as a cover for actual infidelity. The second, however, seemed to be telling the truth. She claimed that, in its surprise at being discovered, the creature had taken on its true form for a split second rather than assuming a new human identity. She described it as short and dumpy-looking, with knobbled, leathery skin and pointy ears. That image fit well enough with the sketches Lambert had seen in the dusty old bestiaries at Kaer Morhen. It seemed that there actually was a lecherous doppler on the loose. He rolled his eyes. Adulterous townswomen were going to use this excuse for decades to come.

Margaret had given Lambert her house key when he deposited her at the bar. He worked his way back to the row of narrow dockside homes and let himself in through the front door. The house was messy, but unremarkable. A cursory search of the interior yielded little useful information. The bedroom was an absolute wreck; sheets tangled, possessions in disarray. It looked as if Margaret’s husband might have trashed the place in a fit of rage. The debris had covered any clues that Lambert might have found useful.

On the landing, he managed to pick out one solitary boot print. It was too large to be Margaret’s, and too small to be her husband’s, based on the size of the boots that were scattered about upstairs. Making a note of its size and shape, Lambert abandoned the search of the house and went to search for a matching print in the muddy street outside.

Incredibly, there was indeed a match amongst the dozens of prints that marched past the front door. He followed the trail down the muddy street, but it continued only for a few blocks before being lost amidst the trampled earth of the main square. Lambert searched the perimeter of the plaza, looking for a continuation, but came up empty-handed. He shrugged to himself. That was fine by him. He already knew the afternoon was wasted, and he was more than ready to give up and spend the evening with a pint of ale.

The Alchemy was already busy when he returned. Margaret was exactly where he’d left her at the bar, several empty mugs in front of her and her head resting on the counter as she snored lightly. Lambert made his way to the back of the room, drawing up a chair beside a hooded figure that he recognized even from behind as Aiden.

“Catch the doppler?” Aiden asked with a half-smile.

“You’re a fucking asshole.” Lambert glared back at him.

“Noted.” Aiden took a swig from his mug. “Made some progress with the bandit situation, since you didn’t ask. I cleared out some small camps near the city, and it looks like there’s a few others a bit further out.” He drew several crumpled letters from his pocket and spread them out on the table. The parchment was speckled with blood. “I found these at one of the campsites. Doesn’t look like we’re dealing with the average gang of cutthroats—these bandits are organized. They report back to a boss somewhere inside the city.”

“Organized bandits. Great.” Lambert rolled his eyes. Oxenfurt was becoming more like Novigrad by the day. Eventually he’d have to avoid Redania altogether if he wanted to stay clear of all the urban bullshit.

“Bandits are bandits. Doesn’t matter if they’re organized or not, they’re still petty and easy to provoke. I doubt their leader is much different.”

“Fair enough.” Lambert cracked his neck, which was sore from bending down to squint at footprints for the better part of the day. “Anything else?”

“The boss calls himself Rook. Other than that, I don’t know anything about him. Nothing in the letters gives any hint as to where he’s headquartered, except that it’s somewhere in Oxenfurt.” Aiden took a draught from his mug. “There’s something else I can’t quite figure—why would they rally behind this man? It’s unusual to see so many of them working together without killing each other.”

Lambert shrugged. “Does it really matter?”

“Maybe. I guess we’ll find out.”

“You’re still a fucking asshole, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Aiden waved away the insult, chuckling softly. “The look on your face was definitely worth it.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the innkeep, who dropped a mug of stout on the table in front of Lambert and clapped him on the back. “Greetings, wolf! Good to see you.”

“Hey, Stjepan. How’s business?”

“Can’t complain.” Stjepan gestured around the crowded tavern. “Bloody noisy around here lately, though.”

Lambert noted Aiden’s bemused expression. “Yeah, I know it’s hard to believe, but I don’t always piss off every person I meet. Stjepan and I go way back.”

The innkeep nodded. “Lambert got rid of a beast that was killing off my customers a few years ago. What did you say it was called?”

“A barghest.” Lambert remembered the contract fondly. It had been easy coin, and far more interesting than clearing out yet another necrophage nest.

Stjepan shook his head. “Bad for business, that.” He collected Aiden’s empty mug. “Another round?”

“Thanks.” Aiden offered him a handful of crowns, but Stjepan waved them away.

“Lambert and his friends drink free. Tavern wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for him.” With a nod to the witchers, the innkeep took his leave.

Aiden turned to Lambert. “In all seriousness, how is the doppler contract going? We could actually use the coin.”

Lambert shrugged. “Not great. You know it’s damn near impossible to spot one. I found a trail, but it went cold pretty fast.”

“How’s the woman?”

“See for yourself.” Lambert gestured toward Margaret’s sleeping form at the bar.

Aiden sighed. “So now what?”

“We wait for it to strike again, I guess. We’re not going to find it if it doesn’t want to be found.”

The other witcher nodded in agreement. “I’ll keep an ear out. Mind helping me out with the bandits tomorrow, then?”

“Why not.” Lambert drained his mug. “Not like I have anything else to do.”

 

~~~~~~

  
The sun shone weakly through the thick clouds overhead. A light mist of rain began to fall as the witchers looked down on the sprawling camp beneath them. Lambert spotted about two dozen bandits wandering aimlessly around the scattered tents and campfires.  


“Are you ready?” Aiden asked quietly.

Lambert nodded in agreement. He unsheathed his blade and crept down the hill, taking care to keep his footsteps as quiet as possible. He took cover behind a large boulder and waited for the bandit that was strolling back and forth at the edge of the camp to walk past him. Darting out from behind the rock, he seized the man from behind and slit his throat with the edge of his steel sword before he could make a sound. The man crumpled to the ground, grabbing ineffectually at his neck as frothy blood bubbled out from the wound. Lambert sprinted toward his next target, running his sword through the center of the bandit’s chest before he could fully draw his blade.

With that, the element of surprise was lost. Lambert bared his teeth and threw himself into the fray, felling foe after foe with surgical precision. It felt good to fight. Adrenaline surged through him, quickening the strokes of his blade as he spun and slashed his way across the camp.

They cleared the area quickly. Though numerous, the untrained thugs were no match for a witcher's blade. At last, only one remained. The man was trapped--a wall of crates behind him, and Lambert and Aiden with their blades raised on either side. He threw his sword to the ground with a thud and raised his hands to the sky.

“Mercy!” he pleaded, his knees shaking. “I’ll give you anything you want!”

“Looking for your boss,” Aiden said, sheathing his steel.

The bandit shook his head rapidly. “He’ll kill me if I talk—”

“And I’ll kill you if you don’t,” Lambert growled. He advanced on the man menacingly, getting close enough for the point of his sword to rest against the skin of his neck. The edge was razor-sharp, and a thin line of red immediately welled up where the metal touched flesh.

The man’s gulp of fear was audible. He hesitated for a moment, eyes darting back and forth rapidly as he searched for a way out of the situation. His expression went from desperation to despair to grim acceptance. He took a deep, shaking breath before answering. “You’ll find Rook at the chess club. Black armor—you can’t miss him.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Lambert said patronizingly. He withdrew his blade and the man began to relax. Lambert pulled back his sword arm in preparation to strike him down, but caught the stony look in Aiden’s eye and changed course at the last moment to knock the man out with the pommel instead. Lambert rolled his eyes. “You’re getting soft.”

“Not at all. You’re losing perspective,” Aiden retorted.

“The hell I am,” Lambert roughly wiped the blood from his blade and slid it back into its scabbard. “You know, when he wakes up he’s going to run straight to his boss and let him know we’re coming.”

Aiden shook his head. “No, he isn’t. And even if he did, he’d have to admit that he’s the one who gave him up. You saw him—he’s more scared of Rook than he was of us. He’ll probably just run. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was halfway to Kovir by tomorrow morning.”

Lambert ground his teeth. He hated leaving a job unfinished, but he’d already conceded the point by leaving their informant alive. Any thrill he might have felt during the fighting was gone. He was ready to be back at the inn, drink in one hand and Gwent cards in the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, I'd like to apologize for the amount of time it took for me to post this chapter. I promise the story is not abandoned--I've been working on this arc every day since my last update. I wanted to make sure it was completely ready before releasing it into the world. The second half is in edits and will be posted in the next couple of days! Thank you so much for reading.


	9. The Doppler's Damnation

Lambert was done sulking by the time they were back inside the city walls. He could smell dozens of dinners cooking in the smoke that wafted through the air, and his stomach growled with hunger. Stjepan had their table waiting, along with some excellent meat pies and cold ale. Lambert hummed appreciatively when he cracked the crust with a spoon, steam rising from the piping hot gravy as he shoveled the food into his mouth with no regard for how badly his tongue was getting burnt. Work always made him hungry.

Several rounds of drinks and hands of Gwent later, the inn was almost empty. Stjepan abandoned his kitchen duties, and Lambert fleeced him out of several of his better cards. Aiden was conspicuously silent, leaning back against the wall and staring at the two of them as if he were trying to figure out the solution to some complex equation. Lambert ignored him. Whatever was the matter, he would deal with it later.

Eventually, Stjepan excused himself to lock up the inn for the night. Aiden’s stare had been boring holes into the side of Lambert’s skull for hours. He was grinding his teeth back and forth, chewing on the words he’d been holding back all night. Lambert broke the silence between them with a sigh.

“You know, contrary to popular belief, I don’t bite.”

Aiden grimaced. “Not so sure about that.”

“Look, something’s clearly bothering you. Just spit it out already.” Lambert turned, straddling the bench so that he was facing Aiden. For the first time, the other witcher looked old to Lambert. His face was haggard, fine lines accentuated by the dim lighting and the thin layer of dirt he still hadn’t washed off. 

Aiden hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I don’t like killing humans.”

“What are you talking about? You’re the one who picked this contract.” Lambert looked at him incredulously. 

“That doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.” Aiden gripped the edge of the table, staring down at his hands. “ I try to never take jobs like this—reminds me too much of the old days. But we needed the coin, and there was nothing else. All that slaughter, and just to find out where this asshole has his headquarters. Seems a bit pointless.”

“Pointless? Aiden, those men weren't exactly innocent. Remember all those smashed carts we rode past on the way in? Think their owners are on vacation in Toussaint? Bullshit. That notice was posted for a reason." 

"And it doesn't bother you? Ever?" 

"No," Lambert said. "Don't forget--I'm not exactly innocent either. There are plenty of bastards out there who would be happy to see me dead. They say the mutations strip us of emotion. Pretty sure that when they took my humanity, my conscience went with it." 

"Didn't dull your temper a bit though, did it?" 

"Hey, I gotta have some individuality." Lambert took a deep draught from his mug.

Aiden sat in silence, staring dully at his hands. Lambert watched him for a while. Despite their differences, the arguments, and the sleepless nights fighting strange dreams, he found himself feeling real concern for the other man. He mulled things over in his head for a moment before breaking the silence.

"Okay," he said. "We can take a day off from the bandit contract. How do you feel about hunting down a horny doppler?" 

Aiden snorted, and his face softened a bit. "Where would you suggest we start?"

"Actually, I had a thought about that," Lambert said, draining his mug. "Hey, Stjepan!"

"Aye?" the innkeep yelled back from somewhere in the kitchen.

"You still got a wife?"

"...Aye?" Stjepan emerged from behind the counter, wiping his hands with a dirty rag and looking skeptical. "Why? What d'you want with her?"

Lambert grinned. "Think she'd like to help us catch a monster?"

~~~~~~

Stjepan’s wife was indeed willing, and even excited, to assist them with their efforts. Natalia was quite a beauty as well, her mahogany tresses and striking green eyes masking a sharp tongue and a no-nonsense attitude. With some reluctance, Stjepan agreed to take a few days’ leave from the inn. Aiden found him a room for a few days with Margaret’s brother so that he could stay out of the public eye for a time.

It was a simple matter to have Natalia draft a notice saying that her husband had left for a trip to Novigrad and not returned, and begging for help locating him. Lambert made sure that she was seen posting it to the weathered notice board in the main square. She bemoaned the hardship of having to run the tavern by herself to any patrons who would listen. 

Lambert and Aiden camped out at the inn, whiling away the days and nights playing Gwent and swapping old stories. Lambert told Aiden about coming to Kaer Morhen, about his boat on the lake, and about his many drunken exploits with Geralt and Eskel. Aiden shared tales of some of the other Cat School witchers. One in particular, concerning Aiden’s mentor Kiyan and a stew spiked with saltpeter, had them both roaring with laughter by the end of it. Lambert felt warmth spreading through his chest at seeing the easy smile on Aiden’s face. It felt strange, to drop his walls like this. He hadn’t realized they were gone until now. 

The witchers spent as much time at their corner table as possible. The positioning provided an excellent view of the entrance, while shielding them with just enough shadow that they weren’t immediately recognizable. Lambert drank only so much as to not be suspicious to the other patrons, wanting to have his wits about him if their target appeared.

On the fourth night, Lambert felt a cool breeze tickle the back of his neck. It was just past closing, and the witchers were the only patrons still at the bar. He turned to scan the room for the newcomer, his eyes lighting immediately upon the man’s familiar visage. It was definitely Stjepan, from his dark brown beard to his trademark yellow jerkin. Lambert hissed a warning to Aiden, who was in the middle of a boisterous account of a contract he’d once taken involving a rusalka and a particularly stubborn dwarf. Aiden nodded to indicate his understanding, but continued his story to avoid drawing suspicion.

The man who appeared to be Stjepan spared no more than a glance in their direction before heading directly for the back stairs, which led to his and Natalia’s private quarters. As soon as Lambert heard the man’s creaking footsteps ascending the staircase, he was on his feet with his sword drawn. Aiden was two steps behind as they crept up the stairs after him.

The door on the top landing was shut, and candlelight flickered through the crack underneath. Lambert could hear Stjepan's muffled tenor through the wood. He couldn't make out the exact words of Natalia's response, but her voice was throaty and low. He held his breath, waiting for the right moment to strike.

He heard the rustle of clothing hitting the floor, and a low hum of pleasure. Then there was a sharp metallic click and a strangled yell. The witchers burst through the door with a crash, swords held at the ready. 

The doppler no longer resembled Stjepan. It was short in stature, covered in lumpy brown skin, and its long, pointed ears stuck out from the side of its head comically. Despite its round cheeks and buck teeth, the expression on its face was one of pure rage. The monster was shackled to the bed frame by its wrist, struggling against the bonds with all its might. Lambert noticed the glint of silver. Natalia sat on the edge of the bed, her breasts exposed, examining the monster with interest. 

"Give you much trouble?" Lambert asked, pleased with her performance.

Natalia shook her head and laughed. "All men are the same. Didn't pay a mind to what I was doing until it was already done." She tugged the fabric of her dress back into place, covering herself. "What do we do with it?"

The doppler snarled, yanking hard on the chain.

Aiden approached it with caution. "Usually, we’d take the head as a trophy so we can get paid. Dopplers are sentient, though, so…” He gave the monster a meaningful look. “Feel free to chime in anytime.”

“You’ll never capture me, human,” the doppler said with contempt. Its voice was strange; low and almost hollow-sounding. 

Lambert snorted. “Yeah, I think we sort of already did.” He stood in front of the doppler, arms crossed as he looked down at it. “Look, you have exactly two options. You can come with us and own up to Margaret’s husband yourself, or I can just kill you and show him your carcass. Makes no difference to me either way.”

The doppler spat at him. “I will not go.”

“Fine by me.” Lambert’s blade sang as he pulled it from its sheath. With one step and a half-pirouette, he swung hard at the doppler’s neck. The monster was far faster than it looked; there was a flash, and then the clang of metal on metal as it blocked his blow with the silver shackle. The cuff, being only plated with the expensive metal, shattered under the full force of a blow from a witcher’s blade. The doppler was free. It laughed and immediately began to transform, its features blurring and morphing rapidly.

Lambert blinked, and Aiden’s double was standing in front of him. The doppler grinned wickedly as it formed its fingers in the sign of Aard. Lambert’s curse was cut off mid-syllable as the blast struck both the witchers and threw them hard against the opposite wall. When the dust and wood splinters settled moments later, it was nowhere to be seen.

“Fuck!” Lambert yelled, slamming his fist against the ground in frustration. Aiden scrambled to his feet. Blood was slowly oozing from a scrape on his cheekbone. 

“Come on—it’s getting away!” Aiden was out the door in an instant. Lambert sprinted after him, pausing only for a moment to retrieve his silver sword from the floor. 

They burst out into the cool night, greeted only by the guttering braziers in the street outside. Lambert could hear frantic footsteps fading in the distance. Aiden had already torn off after them, his navy armor dissolving into the darkness of the night. Lambert swore again and ran after him.

Lambert scarcely managed to catch up to Aiden as they ran across the bridge from the Novigrad gate. One of the soldiers guarding it shouted after them as they ran, but they paid him no mind. The back of the fleeing doppler was only just visible in the inky night. It shifted as it ran, taking on the form of a taller man, dressed entirely in black. Its lead on them was increasing. Lambert dug his boots into the earth, propelling himself forward with all the speed he could manage, but it wasn’t enough. Even with his enhanced senses, he lost sight of the man in the darkness. He skidded to a halt, almost toppling over Aiden, who had just done the same. 

He cursed loudly, scanning his surroundings for signs of the fugitive. Lambert was fairly certain that they were on the narrow island that lay between the walled city of Oxenfurt and the mainland. It was dotted with small cottages and trees. Turning in a slow circle, he listened intently for the sound of running footfalls, but heard nothing but the rustling of leaves in the night breeze. Aiden, who had been doing his own tracking in silence, suddenly bent down and sprinted off toward the south. Lambert swore again and followed. He was just able to make out the trail of prints they were following; fresh, though faint. 

This time he did crash into Aiden, who had stopped short in front of a large, low building. Lambert could hear many muffled voices inside. Aiden shrugged off his reproachful glare and slowly pushed the door open, one hand reaching for the hilt of his silver sword.

The room went silent as the witchers entered. They found themselves beset by several dozen pairs of angry and suspicious eyes as their rough-looking owners turned to examine the new arrivals. These men appeared to be even more out of place than Lambert and Aiden, with their filthy clothes and clumsy tattoos. Each carried a mace or sword, the quality of which was shoddy at best—standard bandit gear. 

The room itself looked as if it belonged inside the academy, instead of somewhere in the outskirts of town. The walls were lined with bookshelves full of expensively-bound tomes. Small tables were scattered around, and though they were currently being used by the thugs for cards and liquor, Lambert could see that they were intended for use as chess boards. 

“I was wondering if you would be able to track me,” a strongly Redanian voice said from the back corner. Its owner was seated facing away from them. All Lambert could see of the man was his oily black hair. “It appears that the tales of witcher’s abilities were not exaggerated. I’m pleased. Yet I doubt that even two of you would be able to hold your own against forty of my men.” The man stood and paced over to the fireplace. The glow illuminated his armor, which was so deeply black that it seemed to devour the firelight. On his breast was a small coat of arms featuring a crumbling castle. 

The man turned to face the witchers. “I regret that we won’t have time to chat. You’ve interfered with several of my recent enterprises, and I’m afraid it’s caused me quite a bit of inconvenience. You’ve proven yourselves to be a credible threat, so I’ve no choice except to have you killed. More’s the pity.” He raised a hand and gestured to the room full of bandits, who stood as one and enthusiastically drew their weapons. 

Aiden’s sword flew from its sheath, the point dancing back and forth as Aiden attempted to hold the assailants at arm’s length. Lambert ran through all the possible outcomes in his head in an instant, and cursed internally as he realized there was no way the two of them could fend off that kind of onslaught. He took the only action available to him and seized Aiden by his swordbelts, dragging him backward out the door. “Go!” he yelled, throwing Aiden into the street. Aiden stumbled, turned the momentum into a forward roll, and hit the ground running. 

Lambert spun on his heel and formed the sign of Aard, putting as much force behind it as he could as he threw the shockwave at the pursuers. The thugs had bottlenecked at the doorway, and were thrown backward into the chess club. He was gone before the dust settled, racing to catch up to Aiden as they fled back toward the city.

~~~~~~

Adrenaline coursed through Lambert’s veins. The bandits were hot on their heels as the witchers raced through the city streets. What little lead they’d had to start with had evaporated by the time they’d reached the city walls. Lambert’s boots pounded the cobblestones, the sound echoing off the facades of the narrow rows of houses they passed. One of the thugs lunged forward with his sword; Lambert heard the change in the cadence of his step and rolled to avoid the blow. Regaining his footing, he turned and cast Igni. The man fell back, clutching at his face. Lambert sprinted onward.

Oxenfurt was small, and bereft of good places to hide. No matter how many turns they made, how many dark alleys they dashed down, they were unable to lose their pursuers. Lambert was considering whether it might be better to simply stand and fight when Aiden suddenly veered toward the south. Lambert realized the other witcher’s intentions immediately as they crossed the bridge toward the college. The island was a dead end, but its tightly spaced buildings and many shadowy corners could afford them the opportunity they needed to disappear.

The courtyard entrance to the academy was populated by a single guard. Lambert barely registered his exclamation of surprise and outrage as they ran for the wall. Aiden stopped and knelt as Lambert approached, interlacing his fingers to give Lambert a foothold and boosting him up onto the wall. Lambert reached down and caught Aiden’s hands as the other witcher jumped, pulling him up beside him. The two of them dropped down the other side into the academy proper, leaning against the wall and gasping for air. 

Lambert could hear raised voices behind them in the courtyard; their pursuers had almost caught up to them. There was shouting and then a thud as the guard was overpowered. The door Lambert and Aiden had bypassed began to splinter as someone threw themselves repeatedly against it. A sharp crack rang out as the wood gave way. Their brief moment of respite was over.

Lambert took a deep breath and dashed down the nearest alleyway, Aiden hot on his heels. The dark path twisted and turned in unexpected directions as it wove around the haphazardly placed buildings of the college. The bandits had lost sight of them for the moment; Lambert could hear their loud, clumsy footsteps echoing down an adjacent street. An intersection opened up ahead of them. They were about to cross it when Aiden seized Lambert and shoved him roughly against the wall of a house. 

“What—” Lambert began, but Aiden shushed him sharply. Aiden pressed Lambert against the stone, covering his body with his own. Lambert suddenly realized what was happening; a smaller group of bandits had broken off from the rest and was close behind them. Aiden was trying to hide them from view, taking advantage of the inky blue of his armor to blend into the darkness. 

“Don’t move,” Aiden murmured softly. Lambert could feel Aiden’s breath, hot against his neck. Between the adrenaline, the thrill of the chase, and the heat of Aiden’s body pressed tightly against his own, he was overwhelmed. He’d never been so turned on in his life.

Lambert held his breath, shaking slightly, trying to remain calm. The group of bandits was almost upon them. His heart was beating so loudly that he was convinced it could be heard several feet away. The men passed by, close enough for Lambert to feel the heat emanating from their torches, but the shadowed forms of the witchers escaped their notice. They continued down the alleyway, rounding a corner and vanishing from sight. Aiden relaxed, stepping back from the wall. Lambert released his breath shakily. 

“Let’s thin out the ranks a bit,” Aiden said, pulling his steel sword from its sheath. Lambert nodded, following suit. They crept after the thugs silently, maintaining the element of surprise for as long as possible. Lambert counted six men in the group ahead of them. He kept to the shadows as he closed the distance, shielding himself with Quen before dashing toward the bandits. He spun into a vicious attack that sliced clean through the closest thug from waist to shoulder. The man’s body remained standing for a moment before wobbling and falling to the ground in two separate pieces.

The remaining men bellowed with rage and charged him all at once. Lambert twirled and spun, catching their blows with his blade. He was able to parry them with little effort, but the barrage of attacks left no room for him to riposte. He saw a flash out of the corner of his eye and two of the men fell, clutching their throats. The point of Aiden’s sword erupted from the chest of a third, and the man coughed, spraying Lambert’s face with a fine mist of blood. Aiden planted his foot in the man’s back and used it to push him off the blade; the body fell motionless face-down in the street. 

Two bandits remained. Lambert launched himself at one, kicking the man’s leg out from under him and plunging his sword downward through his neck when he hit the ground. Withdrawing his blade, he turned to see the last man crumple, Aiden standing over him. Lambert was distressed to see that he was covered in blood, which was running steadily from a gash in his temple.

“You okay?” he asked, trying and failing to keep the note of panic from his voice. Aiden raised a hand to the wound as if he’d only just noticed it and winced when he touched it.

“I’ll live. Most of this isn’t mine,” he said, gesturing at the red staining the front of his armor. “We’ll deal with it later. Let’s just focus on getting out of here alive.” 

Lambert nodded in agreement. They needed to keep moving; it was only a matter of time before the rest of the bandits caught up to them, or some of the patrolling Redanian soldiers discovered the carnage. The way behind them was likely already blocked. They needed to keep moving forward. Lambert cursed. While the winding streets and high walls of the academy had bought them time, they had also trapped them like rats. 

Whether this thought had already occurred to Aiden was unclear. He stared into the distance for a moment, seemingly unaware of the sound of blood dripping onto the cobblestones. “This way,” he said suddenly, darting down another alleyway before Lambert had time to question. Lambert followed, unsure of where they were going. It seemed like Aiden was backing them into a corner. There were no routes of escape this far back on the island, and the path they were on terminated in a small square with no other entrances or exits. 

Lambert was beginning to wonder if the head wound was affecting Aiden’s judgment when the other witcher surprised him by scrambling up some scaffolding near the outer wall of the academy. One eyebrow raised skeptically, Lambert took the hand that Aiden reached down to him and pulled himself up. They crept along the parapets until they reached a small watchtower set into the wall. Aiden climbed the ladder without hesitation and gestured for Lambert to follow. 

Looking down from the tower, Lambert at last understood. Aiden had never intended for them to escape the academy on foot. They were faced with a three-story drop into the roiling waters of the Pontar below. From there, they could swim back to the harbor and regroup. He hesitated. In the darkness, it was impossible to tell how deep the water was. There was a good chance that one or both of them might miss the river entirely and end up splattered on the sharp rocks below. 

He could hear men climbing the scaffolding below. They were out of time. He looked at Aiden. “You sure about this?”

Aiden shrugged. “If I’m wrong, it’s not going to matter anyway. We don’t really have a choice.”

“Fuck it.” Lambert took a deep breath, backed up a few steps, and took a running leap from the tower. He felt the rush of cold air on his skin as he fell, lining himself as best he could so as not to break his neck when he landed.

The inky water was mercifully deep and chilled him to his bones. He surfaced just in time to see Aiden dive in feet away from him. There was shouting in the tower above as someone brandished a torch from where they’d been standing just moments before. Lambert ducked under the surface and swam hard for shore as a handful of arrows splashed into the water around him.

~~~~~~

Lambert leaned back against the wall and rubbed his eyes blearily. Between the chase, the arduous swim to the harbor, and having to evade the stragglers of the bandit group on their way back to the inn, it had been an incredibly long night. He felt like he had hardly closed his eyes before Aiden shook him awake, startling him out of a restless sleep. He could still feel the skin of his neck prickling where Aiden’s lips had brushed it in his dream long after the haze had faded.

He sighed and stared at the wall opposite. Aiden was in the middle of a spirited argument with the captain of the company of Redanian soldiers responsible for the city’s protection. The man was shaking his head with crossed arms.

“Not a mage’s chance in hell. I hired you to do this because I don’t have the men to lose dealing with this bandit problem. If you can’t handle it yourselves then why am I paying you?”

“You haven’t paid us yet anyway,” Aiden said, waving a hand in irritation. “I’d be more than happy to walk away from this with empty pockets, but we have business with the leader.”

The captain shrugged. “Conduct it on your own time, then.”

“Look,” Aiden groaned in frustration. “This is a huge operation. It’s like fighting a zeugl. If you help take out the tentacles, we can deal with the head.”

“And this Rook, you say he’s the one in charge?” The captain furrowed his brow.

“Yes. With him out of the picture, the rest should dissolve back into loosely associated gangs of cutthroats. Not much of a threat to the city, and easy enough to clean up.”

The captain thought for a moment, and then made a gesture of defeat. “Fine. I can give you ten men, no more. And I’m taking their pay out of your fee.”

“The hell you are!” Lambert growled. “We agreed the price in advance. There’s no changing it now.”

“Lambert, leave it.” Aiden’s voice was weary. Lambert shot him a withering look, but kept his mouth shut. Arrangements were made for the assault, and the witchers retreated to the inn to prepare. Lambert spent the next several hours resting, opting to meditate instead of sleeping because he had no desire to dream.

When Lambert opened his eyes, the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon. He found Aiden by the fire, sharpening his swords beyond the point of usefulness.

“You’re just going to weaken it, you know,” Lambert said as he sat beside the other witcher. 

Aiden nodded, using the whetstone to hone the point of the sword to a razor’s edge. “I know. It’s going to break eventually. But it helps me think.” He laid the whetstone aside and picked up his bottle of Hanged Man’s Venom, using a rag to apply the oil. 

Lambert glanced at the sword. Its blade was considerably worn down compared to his own. It looked as if it had been subjected to many such cleanings over the years. “Looks like you’ve been thinking a lot.” 

Aiden snorted. “You have no idea.” Satisfied, he slid the sword back into its sheath and slung the belt over his shoulder. “It’s almost time; we should head to the rendezvous point.” 

Lambert gathered up his own gear, tightening his swordbelt across his chest and making sure that his bombs were securely hooked in place. With a nod to Stjepan, they strode out into the night.

~~~~~~

The group of soldiers was waiting for them on the bridge between the city proper and the island outskirts. The Redanians were not a stealthy lot. Lambert could hear them long before they were in sight as several of them guffawed over a lewd story.

“‘Bout time,” one of them commented as the witchers approached. He appeared to be the leader of the group; his armor bore more detail than the others, and instead of a halberd he carried a longsword. “We was starting to think you wouldn’t show.”

“Well, here we are. Are your men ready?” Aiden asked.

The soldier spat into the dirt. “Chomping at the bit. The whoresons have it coming—let’s go give it to them.”

Aiden nodded his assent, and the group slowly made its way toward the chess club. Once in position, hidden against the back wall of a neighboring house, Lambert could see that Rook had increased his defenses since the previous night. Several thugs were patrolling the fence around the building with torches, and an archer was posted on the roof. “That going to be a problem?” Lambert said quietly to the soldier next to him. 

He shook his head. “Leave it to us.”

“Remember—don’t touch the man in black,” Lambert hissed. “He’s mine.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The soldier grinned. Lambert raised a hand and signaled Aiden, who was positioned against the next house over. He heard the other witcher pull his sword from its sheath and raised his hand to the hilt of his own. He took a deep breath as he drew the blade. 

The lead soldier was the first to charge. “Let’s get ‘em, boys!” he bellowed, brandishing his longsword. The others were close behind, cries of “Redania!” piercing the night as they engaged the bandits. Lambert saw the archer loose an arrow, which struck one of the soldiers square in the chest. He crumpled to the ground, motionless. 

A second arrow flew through the air, but this one pierced the abdomen of the archer on the roof. The man fell back, clutching at the wound and howling. Lambert heard a yell of triumph from somewhere nearby. What the Redanians lacked in subtlety, they made up for in enthusiasm. Though they were outnumbered two to one, they fought as if there were no chance of losing. Keeping the bandits at a distance with the poles of their halberds, the soldiers felled them one by one. 

With the bulk of the outside force occupied, the witchers were able to approach the building uncontested. Lambert pulled a Samum bomb from his belt as Aiden blasted the door off its hinges with Aard. Lambert lobbed the bomb through the opening and quickly turned, shielding himself with Quen. The sign shattered into a shower of golden sparks when the explosion hit, but it blocked the worst of the concussive effects. 

The occupants of the building were not so lucky. Those that hadn’t been knocked unconscious or thrown against the walls by the blast were blinded, clutching at their eyes and yelling in rage and pain. Lambert launched himself into the fray, the arc of his steel sword slicing thin lines through the dust that hung suspended in the air. He felt the blade bite into flesh, and one of the screaming voices was suddenly silenced. He heard a creak in the floorboards behind him and whirled around, parrying high and catching the blow of a mace just inches from his forehead. He kicked his assailant in the stomach, thrusting his sword through the man’s chest when he stumbled back. Withdrawing it, he rolled to dodge a clumsy blow and pirouetted, slicing another bandit’s arm off at the shoulder. They were coming at him from all sides, but in the dark and debris of the room he had the advantage. More blows missed him entirely than were parried, and the thugs’ fumbling attacks left them wide open for him to counter. He was vaguely aware of Aiden on the other side of the room, catching glimpses of his whirling dance of destruction through the bodies of his attackers.

As the last corpse hit the floor, the harsh sound of slow clapping rang out through the silence. Lambert turned to see Rook standing in front of the empty fireplace. His black armor was coated in a thin layer of dust and there was a shallow gash above his eyebrow, but otherwise he looked no worse for the wear. 

“I’m impressed, witcher—” 

“Shut the fuck up.” Lambert interjected, sheathing his steel. “I’m not in the mood for a speech. Let’s just finish this.”

“As you wish.” The doppler grimaced as his face began to morph, the tone of his voice shifting into something familiar.

“Oh, _mother fucker_ ,” Lambert swore. He drew his silver sword and watched as his mirror image did the same. The doppler smiled wickedly, holding up its left hand in the sign of Aard. The blast was weaker than it would have been if Lambert had cast it himself, but it was still enough to throw him backward. He skidded across the filthy floor, but managed to retain his footing. With a growl of anger, he ran at the doppler, launching himself into the air to drive his sword straight down through the other man’s head. 

Instead of the squelch and crack of hitting flesh and bone, there was a shattering sound as his sword met the resistance of the doppler’s Quen. The sign shattered, throwing Lambert backward once more. His sword flew from his hand and clattered as it slid to a halt several feet away. 

As Lambert shook off the daze, he saw a navy blur as Aiden slide-tackled the doppler, knocking his feet out from under him. Aiden plunged his sword down, but the doppler rolled out of the blade’s path. Back on its feet, it swung at Aiden, who barely managed to duck under the blade as it whizzed by his head. Lambert breathed a sigh of relief before scrambling to his feet and rushing to retrieve his sword. 

Aiden and the doppler were dueling in earnest, the motion of their blades so rapid that they were barely visible as they spun and parried and countered without taking a moment to draw breath. There was a clang and Aiden staggered backward, clutching his face. The doppler advanced on him, poised to strike. Lambert charged without thinking, throwing the full force of his body into the doppler’s and knocking him to the floor. It landed flat on its back with a thud. Lambert stomped on the doppler’s sword, tearing it from its grasp and kicking it as far away as he could. It tried to get up, but he planted his foot firmly in the center of its chest. 

It was surreal, looking down at his own face. The doppler showed no fear, but glared at him defiantly as Lambert pointed his silver sword at its neck. 

“You won’t.” The doppler grinned, struggling against Lambert’s weight. “I’ve been inside your skin.” The body below his foot shifted slightly, and the doppler’s figure blurred into Aiden’s, its voice changing as it did. “I know how you feel.”

“You don’t know shit,” Lambert snarled. The doppler opened its mouth, but Lambert brought down his sword in a clean arc and severed its head before it could say another word. He sheathed his sword and turned his attention to the real Aiden, who was gingerly probing a deep gash under his left eye with his fingertips. 

“Here,” he said, offering the other witcher a vial of Swallow. Aiden waved it away. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine—I already took some. It’ll mend.” The wound was deep, but the edges were already beginning to knit back together, albeit slowly. Lambert extended a hand to Aiden and pulled him to his feet. Together, they went to collect the remains of the doppler.

Its head, still bearing Aiden’s visage, stared blankly toward the opposite wall. It had rolled several feet from the body, a pool of viscous red forming on the floor between the two halves. Lambert looked into Aiden’s dead eyes and felt sick. He swallowed the feeling, breathing slowly through his nose until it passed. The real Aiden, who was examining the body with interest, suddenly burst out laughing.

“What?” Lambert asked incredulously. 

Aiden pointed. “The scar—it got it wrong!” He drew a finger across his neck, tracing the path of the claw marks from his right ear to his collarbone. Lambert forced himself to look at the body and snorted when he saw that Aiden was right. The scar on the doppler’s body started on the left side of its neck. 

Still laughing, Aiden slung an arm around Lambert’s shoulders. As the remains of the defeated monster faded back into their original configuration, Lambert felt the tension in his gut begin to dissolve.

~~~~~~

Lambert banged on the door of the little house by the harbor for the third time. Finally, after a great deal of shuffling and annoyed grunts from the other side, it opened. The man who stood before him was shirtless and flushed, wearing a pair of trousers that seemed to be on backward and laced up improperly. He squinted at Lambert, who was silhouetted by the morning sun.

“You Ivan?”

The man stood up taller. “Depends who’s askin’.”

“I’m a friend of Margaret’s.” Lambert pulled the doppler’s head from his trophy hook and shoved it into the man’s hands. “This is for you.”

“What the hell is it?” Ivan asked, looking down at the leathery object in his hands with disgust.

“The head of the man you accused your wife of cheating on you with. She was telling the truth, asshole—it was a doppler.”

Ivan looked shell-shocked. “I—”

“Save it.” From somewhere in the house, a peal of female laughter rang out. Lambert rolled his eyes. “Sounds like you have company. I’ll get out of your hair.” He left the man there, staring dumbfounded at the trophy.

~~~~~~

Margaret and Aiden were already waiting for Lambert at the Alchemy. Aiden tossed him a bag of coin as he approached, and Lambert weighed it in his hand appreciatively. “Payment from the Redanians?”

Aiden nodded. “They took less out than I thought they might. Not too bad for a few days’ work.”

Lambert turned to Margaret, who was waiting anxiously. “Job’s done. Pretty sure he believed me, but I’d try to find out what he’s been up to in his spare time before you go running back into his arms.”

Margaret smiled. “You’ve cleared my name—that’s all I could ask for. It’s not much, but here.” She handed him a small leather pouch. “I’ve no coin, but these gems were part of my dowry when I married Ivan. Seems fittin’ you should have them.” 

“Thanks.” Lambert nodded and pocketed it. 

“Good luck on the path.” Margaret rose from the table and made her way to the exit. There was a moment of silence between the witchers, which was broken by Aiden.

“So where to?”

Lambert shrugged. “I don’t really give a shit, as long as there’s no dopplers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently seeking a beta for this story. If you like what you've read so far and are interested in helping out, please let me know in the comment section! I'd love to hear from you :)


	10. Something Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by the lovely [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion/works), who also put together a [soundscape](https://countryside.ambient-mixer.com/something-found) for this chapter!

The fiend dug its claws into the mossy earth, dirt churning beneath its feet as it charged at Lambert. He rolled out of its path at the last second; the enormous beast’s momentum carried it past him, impacting the wall of the ruin with a loud crash. Fragments of loose stone showered down onto the fiend as it shook its head, momentarily stunned. Lambert kept his body low to the ground, ready to dodge in any direction. Rain fell steadily from the darkening sky, rendering the ground slippery and the fight more dangerous than it should have been.

The fiend’s daze didn’t last long. It turned and charged once more, its lumbering form barreling toward Lambert. He dodged just to the left of it, narrowly avoiding being crushed under its enormous paws. He flung out his sword as he rolled, the tip biting into the fiend’s thick hide and opening a gash the length of its stomach. The beast howled with rage and pain. It was bleeding, but the wound wasn’t as deep as Lambert would have liked. His blade had barely gone through the skin.

In the periphery of his vision, Lambert saw Aiden run toward the fiend, sword raised to strike it in the side while its attention was focused on Lambert. The beast crouched low on its front legs and roared. The ground rumbled slightly beneath his feet.

Lambert realized what was about to happen a second before it did.

“Aiden, don’t!” he yelled, but it was too late. The fiend’s third eye opened, burning like a hot coal in the center of its head as it snapped around to look at Aiden. Aiden staggered back, his own eyes going completely black as the hypnotic effect of the spell took hold.

Lambert swore loudly. The fiend was advancing on Aiden, menace evident in its every motion. Aiden was rapt, his attention focused on the glowing eye as he backed away from it slowly. The fiend pawed the ground, readying itself to charge once more.

Lambert ripped a Samum bomb from his belt and lobbed it at the fiend’s head as hard as he could. It hit its mark, exploding inches in front of the beast’s nose with a bang and a blinding flash of light. The monster howled in agony, rearing back and shaking its head violently from side to side. When it lowered its head once more, nothing remained of the burning eye but a gory red crater in the center of its head.

Aiden shook off the hypnosis as soon as the bomb burst. He circled wide to the right of the fiend, searching for an opening to attack its flank. Quick as a flash, he darted in, blade poised to sink into the beast’s hind leg. The edge of Aiden’s sword had barely grazed the fiend’s mangy hide before it rounded on him, roaring with fury. Aborting the swing, Aiden backpedaled, trying to put distance between himself and the monster.

Lambert felt as if he were seeing in slow motion as the fiend lunged at Aiden. Aiden spun into a counter, his attack stopping short as the fiend surged forward with its antlers dipped and speared him through the abdomen. Lambert was faintly aware of his own wordless shout and the ugly, broken sound Aiden made as the air was knocked out of him. The fiend lifted the witcher into the air on its horns, shaking him back and forth like a rag doll. Aiden’s head lolled, snapping back and forth on his limp neck.

Uttering a constant stream of curses under his breath, Lambert sprinted off after the fiend. It had carried Aiden almost to the base of the ruins. As it reared and shook its head, Aiden’s impaled body suddenly came free and was flung hard against the stone wall. He slid to the ground and landed with a thud, motionless.

Lambert heaved himself up piles of rubble, working desperately to gain the higher ground. His hands were sweating inside his gloves, and he scrabbled for purchase on the rain-slicked rock. Reaching the battlements, he could see the fiend prowling around below, blindly sniffing for his location. Steam poured from its enormous nostrils into the cool air.

“Hey!” Lambert shouted, kicking a loose rock so that it landed square on the fiend’s head. “I’m up here, you whoreson!” The monster looked straight upward, roaring and stamping its feet.

Lambert took three running steps and launched himself into the air, both hands grasping the pommel of his sword firmly as he plummeted toward the ground. With all his might, he plunged his blade straight down through the center of the fiend’s thick skull. It sank in to the hilt. The beast gurgled, shuddered, and fell to its side with a massive thud.

Lambert abandoned his sword in the fiend’s carcass and sprinted over to where Aiden’s lifeless form lay crumpled on the ground. Grabbing the witcher by the shoulder and hip, he rolled him over so that he was face up. Aiden was in terrible shape. His breath came in short, shallow rasps. His armor was punctured in several places, and blood welled up steadily through the holes, dark and viscous. The sweet, metallic scent of it filled Lambert’s nose.

“Fuck, Aiden—” Lambert sat back on his heels, his outstretched hands frozen just above Aiden’s body. He fought to get a grip on himself. There would be time to panic later, but right now—right now Aiden was dying.

Lambert tore through his supplies, desperation increasing by the second until his shaking fingers closed around the vial of White Raffard’s Decoction. He pulled the cork from its neck and poured as much of the potion into Aiden’s mouth as he could without choking him. The seconds passing felt like hours, but Aiden’s breath began to come more evenly. Lambert began working at removing Aiden’s armor, cursing at the unfamiliar buckles that were hidden away in strange places. He cut through the last two straps with his knife, reasoning that the whole gambeson was fucked beyond repair anyway. He threw it to the side in a heap.

The cotton shirt Aiden wore beneath his armor was soaked through with blood, the thin material clinging to the skin of his abdomen. Lambert cut it away and sucked in his breath. Though beginning to mend around the edges, the wounds were still bleeding heavily. Aiden’s skin was pale as death against the crimson that was smeared across it. He tore what was left of the shirt into strips and bound them tightly around Aiden’s waist. Blood began to seep into the makeshift bandage almost immediately, but the flow appeared to be slowing.

Aiden’s skin was as cold as ice. Lambert did his best not to think about what that meant and focused instead on getting him out of the rain. Further into the ruin, there was a chamber that still had a part of a ceiling covering it. Finding that Aiden was much heavier than he appeared, Lambert resorted to dragging him across the uneven stone floor. Leaving Aiden in the driest place he could find, Lambert set about gathering wood for a fire. The branches he managed to find were all waterlogged, and it took several blasts of Igni to dry them out enough for them to light at all. The fire smoldered heavily, but at least it was burning.

He glanced at Aiden. The color was beginning to return to his skin, but he was still unconscious. It would probably be several hours before the wounds were mended. There was nothing else he could do but let the potion do its work.

Lambert ventured outside and retrieved his sword from the fiend’s head. He wrinkled his nose in disgust—the carcass was already beginning to stink. He wiped the blade on the monster’s thick fur and returned to the fire, avoiding looking at the blood-soaked patch of earth as he went. Settling on the floor, he leaned back against the wall behind him and turned the blade over in his hands.

The memory of Aiden being gored by the monster played over and over in his head on a loop. He closed his eyes and tried to shove it out of his mind, but every time he did it returned. Lambert felt like he’d been punched in the gut. The desperation, the helplessness he’d felt in that moment washed over him in waves. His heart was pounding in his chest. He fought back the urge to vomit, taking deep, shaking breaths through his nose and staring at the opposite wall.

Too close. He’d let himself get far too close. This was what happened when you let yourself care about people. On the Path, one false step, one moment of hesitation could get you killed. He’d decided long ago that it was better to spare himself the pain of burying yet another friend.

On the other side of the fire, Aiden made an unconscious sound of pain. Lambert tipped his head back against the rough stone of the wall and grimaced. They should never have taken this contract. He should never have agreed to travel with Aiden in the first place. He should never have taken the contract on the ogre back in Ellander. Stability, happiness, glory—none of those things were possible for a witcher. He should have known better than to try.

Lambert stared at Aiden’s motionless form, barely seeing it through the blur of hot, bitter tears that welled up in his eyes. He made a fist, fighting back his feelings as night began to fall outside.

 

~~~~~~

The rain stopped sometime after midnight. Lambert could hear the calls of nocturnal birds in the distance as water droplets slowly fell from the trees outside. A gust of wind rushed through the ruin, causing the fire to flare up momentarily. Lambert threw another log into the flames and sat back against the wall once more.

Aiden’s wounds appeared to have healed. The blood that had seeped into the makeshift bandage had dried and turned the shade of rust, and the color had returned to his face. He slept deeply, his breath even and slow. Lambert stared at his hands, picking at a cut on his knuckle. A wolf howled somewhere in the distance.

Aiden stirred and groaned, startling Lambert out of his thoughts. Aiden opened his eyes, his pupils contracting to thin slits as they adjusted to the firelight. He pushed himself up to a sitting position and clutched at his abdomen, looking down at the bandages in confusion.

“…Lambert?” Aiden said uncertainly, looking around for him.

“Here.” Lambert said tonelessly from his spot in the shadows.

“Where’s the fiend?”

“Outside. Dead.”

“Did it…what happened?”

“What do you remember?” Lambert picked up a twig from the ground and flicked it into the fire.

Aiden grimaced. “I dreamed—I felt its horns go through me—” He glanced down at the makeshift bandage and the old blood that was crusted on it. "So it did happen."

Lambert nodded once, and then returned to staring into the fire. He gritted his teeth, struggling to keep the image from replaying in his head. Aiden peeled the bandage away slowly, revealing several new puckered scars where the antlers had pierced his abdomen. The healed flesh was pink and tender, but it was whole. He used what was left of the rags to wipe the dried blood from his skin and then looked around.

"What happened to my armor?"

Lambert wordlessly indicated the bloody heap of cloth and leather that used to be Aiden's gambeson.

Aiden made an expression of dismay. "Well, that's not going to be cheap to fix."

Lambert made a noncommittal noise and resumed picking at the cut on his knuckle. The scab tore open and it began bleeding anew. He ground his teeth.

"Lambert?" He could hear the concern in Aiden's voice. Wincing, Aiden got up and limped over, leaning against the wall and sliding down it to sit beside him. "What's wrong?"

Lambert made a fist, but said nothing. He stared straight ahead into the fire, avoiding Aiden's anxious gaze. The orange glow of the coals against the surrounding darkness burned his sensitive eyes.

"I'm fine," Aiden said, though the tremble in his voice betrayed him. They both knew how close he had come to dying.

Lambert's hand was shaking.

"Lambert." Aiden spoke his name so gently that Lambert felt like he'd been punched in the chest. "Look at me."

Lambert turned his head slowly to find himself face to face with Aiden, the other witcher’s golden eyes staring deeply into his own. He felt strangely vulnerable and exposed. Aiden’s gaze seemed to go right through him to the deepest parts of his soul. He held his breath.

Slowly, uncertainly, Aiden brought a hand up to cup Lambert’s face. For a moment they both were still, and then Aiden closed the gap between them and was kissing Lambert, his fingers moving up to tangle in Lambert’s hair, and Lambert was frozen, uncomprehending, trying desperately to make sense of what was happening. It felt like an eternity before Aiden broke away, looking at Lambert through heavy-lidded eyes.

Lambert’s mind raced to catch up. His heart was beating far too fast—it felt as if it were going to burst out of his chest. Aiden’s expression changed to one of mixed concern and regret as he pulled away, creating space between the two of them.

“I…” Aiden hesitated. “Was that—”

Lambert growled somewhere deep in his throat and seized Aiden by the shoulders, pulling him in and kissing him roughly. He poured all of his frustration, his anger, his desire into it. Aiden tasted even sweeter than he had in Lambert’s dreams, the memory paling in comparison to the warmth and solidity of Aiden’s body as they embraced one another. Aiden’s hand fisted in his hair as Lambert deepened the kiss, opening his mouth against Aiden’s, letting out a low moan as their tongues swirled over each other. Lambert raised a hand to cup Aiden’s jaw, feeling the soft brush of his beard under his fingers.

The two of them broke apart, gasping for air. Aiden leaned against Lambert, pressing their foreheads together as he grinned. “I had no idea,” he breathed, his tone equal parts reverent and pleased.

“Yeah, well.” Lambert shrugged. “I’m not exactly an open book.”

“That’s the understatement of the fucking year.” Aiden laughed, swinging his leg over Lambert so that he was sitting astride his lap. His weight was a welcome pressure against Lambert’s swelling cock. Lambert ran his hands over Aiden’s torso, desperate to feel every inch of him. He’d been so concerned with stopping the bleeding before, he’d paid no attention to the toned muscles of his chest. How the dusting of soft chestnut hair there trailed down his belly before disappearing below his trousers. How the scars on Aiden’s neck continued down past his collarbone and across his chest, terminating in a twisted knot of tissue on the right side of his ribcage. Lambert traced his fingers along their path, and Aiden shivered under his touch. How had he survived?

Aiden had just as many, if not more, scars on his body as Lambert did. They were a mark of the dangers of the witcher profession, a constant reminder that any day could be their last. Lambert pressed his lips to a jagged line that bisected Aiden’s abdomen. “What was this?” he murmured against Aiden’s skin.

“Axe,” Aiden replied breathlessly. His hands worked at the buckles of Lambert’s armor, the gambeson falling from his shoulders. Lambert tossed it to the side—it clattered to the floor and came to a rest beside his swordbelts. Aiden’s hands worked their way into the open neck of Lambert’s shirt, exploring the ridges and valleys of his body. Lambert tugged the shirt free of his waistband and pulled it over his head, fully exposing his chest to Aiden’s eager touch. He gripped Aiden’s hips with both hands, grinding upward against him and eliciting a hum of satisfaction from the other witcher.

Lambert ran his palm over the obvious bulge in Aiden’s trousers. Aiden ground his hips forward against Lambert’s touch, gasping as Lambert squeezed his girth through the stiff leather. Lambert groaned helplessly—the hardness and heat of him were apparent even through the layers of material separating them. He took his hand away to undo the lacing at the front of Aiden’s trousers, cursing whoever had designed the Cat School armor for making the pieces so damn difficult to remove. The ties undone, he slid his fingers in and took Aiden’s cock in hand. Aiden gasped at his touch, his fingers digging into the meat of Lambert’s shoulder as Lambert began to stroke. Aiden’s dick was flushed, burning with heat as Lambert slid his hand along its velvety length. He savored the thickness of it in his hand, the bead of wetness that was already beginning to collect at the tip. Lambert ran his thumb through it and used it to lubricate his downstroke, eliciting a choked gasp from Aiden as the other witcher rutted up into Lambert’s fist.

Aiden grabbed Lambert roughly by the hair and dragged him up into a vicious kiss, the ferocity of it surprising them both. Aiden’s lips were hot, and desperate, and full of need as they pressed against Lambert’s. Lambert threw himself into the kiss with abandon, his left hand wrapping around Aiden’s back while the other stroked his cock. Aiden’s teeth sank hard into his bottom lip and Lambert gasped in shock, breaking away.

“What the shit, Aiden?” he demanded, frowning.

“Too much?” Aiden grinned and leaned back in to press his lips to the spot he’d just bitten. Lambert brought his left hand up to fist in the curls of Aiden’s chestnut hair, pulling harder than was necessary to tip Aiden’s head back and suck a trail of kisses down the side of his neck. He bit back hard when he got down to Aiden’s collarbone, sucking on the same spot for a moment before pulling back, pleased at the purple bruise that was already beginning to form there.

“You’re a whoreson,” Aiden gasped.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Lambert growled back. His neglected cock ached inside his trousers, and the rough stone of the wall behind him was cold against his bare skin. “As much as I’m enjoying this, d’you mind if we move?” He nodded toward the bedroll that was already laid out beside the fire.

Aiden acquiesced, getting to his feet with difficulty and shucking off the remainder of his clothing as he went. Lambert scrambled to his feet, cursing when he stumbled while yanking off his boots. His trousers were the last to go—his shaking hands had trouble even with their simple laces. He felt relieved when at last they fell to the floor.

Aiden was waiting for him, lying back on the bedroll. Lambert sank to his knees and knelt over him, sinking down to cover Aiden’s body with his own. One of Aiden’s legs insinuated itself between Lambert’s as he settled his weight on top of the other witcher. A low groan escaped Lambert at the sensation of his bare skin against Aiden’s. This was everything he’d been wanting while he was suffering in silence. He leaned down to capture Aiden’s mouth with his own, kissing him roughly with abandon.

Lambert’s cock throbbed against Aiden’s thigh, desperate for friction. He pulled away from the kiss and used his free hand to grab Aiden’s, pushing it down toward where their bodies met and groaning with relief when Aiden finally took his cock in hand and gave it an experimental pump. Panting, Lambert cupped Aiden’s jaw and stared into his eyes—the other man’s pupils were so blown that they almost eclipsed his golden irises.

Despite being recently injured, Aiden was anything but gentle. Grabbing Lambert roughly by the shoulder with his free hand, Aiden rolled the two of them over so that Lambert was on his back. He nipped at Lambert’s earlobe before sucking a trail of violent kisses down his neck that Lambert was sure were going to bruise in the morning. His hands roaming freely over Lambert’s body, Aiden continued moving down Lambert’s torso until his nose was buried in the soft hair at the base of Lambert’s cock.

Lambert held his breath, fisting his hands in the fabric of the bedroll. Aiden’s breath was hot against his sensitive skin. He rolled his hips, desperate for Aiden to touch him, and felt Aiden smile against his skin before licking the length of his cock from root to tip and taking Lambert into his mouth. His vision swam for a moment as he arched up into Aiden’s mouth involuntarily. Lambert propped himself up on his elbow, reaching out with his other hand to knot it in Aiden’s hair as the other witcher began to move his head up and down. Aiden’s mouth was warm and slick, and the way he swirled his tongue around Lambert’s dick was driving him mad. He thrust upward as Aiden dipped his head down to swallow him to the root and had to struggle not to cum right then and there.

Though it pained him to do it, Lambert pushed Aiden off him. “You’re too fucking good at that,” he gasped, pressing a hand to his forehead as he tried to catch his breath.

“I live to serve.” Aiden’s face was flushed an appealing red that extended to his neck and chest. The scars on his neck were practically invisible against his darkened skin.

“God damn.” Lambert sat up and planted a passionate kiss on Aiden’s swollen lips. He wrapped his arms around Aiden’s waist, hands roving over the scarred flesh of Aiden’s back before moving down to squeeze his ass. In one fluid maneuver, he pushed Aiden down on his back and rolled on top of him, kneeling between his spread legs. “Do you want—”

“Fuck yes I do.” Aiden cut him off. “Check in my bag—no, not that, that’s hybrid oil—” he instructed as Lambert scrambled up and tore through the satchel until his fingers closed around a small vial of golden liquid. Lambert removed the cork clumsily and drizzled some of the silky oil onto his fingers before setting the vial aside and settling himself back down between Aiden’s thighs.

Aiden was pure sex, from the way he looked up at Lambert with heavy-lidded eyes, to the way his flushed cock strained against his stomach, to the hushed moan he let out when Lambert pushed his middle finger inside him. Aiden rocked his hips down against Lambert’s hand as he added a second finger, and then a third. Aiden’s head was thrown back, his throat deliciously exposed. Lambert withdrew his hand, reaching for the bottle of oil again and using it to coat his dick. He stroked himself roughly for a moment before lining himself up against Aiden. Lambert looked at him with questioning eyes.

His unspoken question was answered in Aiden’s longing expression. Lambert leaned in, pressing his forehead against Aiden’s and looking into his eyes as he slowly pushed his cock inside him. Aiden moaned, gripping Lambert by the back of his neck and digging his fingers in as he rocked his hips back to take more of Lambert. Lambert gasped, feeling his face flush red as he thrust in to the hilt. He stopped there, panting, his dick throbbing against the tightness and heat of Aiden’s body under him. “Shit,” he breathed, shaking with the effort of holding still.

Aiden rolled his hips against Lambert. Lambert growled deep in his throat and began thrusting in and out of Aiden, setting a steady pace that was punctuated by the other man’s moans. Aiden’s hands were everywhere—fisting in Lambert’s hair, feeling his chest, digging into his back. Lambert’s thrusting became faster, more urgent, each roll of his hips bringing him closer to the brink. Aiden reached down to take himself in hand, stroking in time with Lambert’s movements. Lambert’s breath was coming in grunts. His skin felt electrified, every inch of him humming with energy as he gripped Aiden’s thigh with one hand and canted his hips, rolling them hard into each thrust.

“Oh, f—” Aiden choked out, and then he was arching up under Lambert, shaking as he came in spurts. His body contracted rhythmically around Lambert’s cock. Lambert let out a strangled noise that he was only vaguely aware of. Seeing Aiden come apart like that, hearing the sounds he made when pushed past the edge—it was all too much. He thrust into Aiden once, twice more, and then pleasure was shooting through him as he tumbled into the abyss.

When Lambert came back to himself, he was collapsed on top of Aiden, his breathing ragged and heavy. He buried his face in the crook of Aiden’s neck, relishing the juniper-and-musk scent of him. One of Aiden’s hands reached up to wind itself into Lambert’s hair while the other stroked his back gently. They stayed that way for what felt like hours before the dying light of the fire forced them to separate and tend to the mess they’d made.

 

~~~~~~

Lambert awoke in the grey light of dawn, rubbing at his bleary eyes as the haze of dreamless sleep faded around him. He stretched and then froze, some part of him recognizing that something was amiss but unable to identify what it was. Then he felt something warm shift slightly next to him and it all came flooding back—the events of the previous night, Aiden almost dying, Aiden kissing him roughly, Aiden arching underneath him as—

Lambert swallowed.

And it had been _real_ , this time. Not a miserable, twisted dream that sizzled into nothing but bitter frustration and disappointment in the light of day. The body beside him was solid, its steady heartbeat reassuring, its metronome grounding Lambert to the present. Aiden was there, still naked, the warm curve of his ass pressed against Lambert’s hip as he slept. Lambert sighed contentedly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so well, or the last time he’d fallen asleep even for a few minutes without having some sort of tortured dream. Aiden’s presence beside him was a like a talisman that kept the nightmares away.

The fire had gone out. He tried to slip out of the bedroll without awakening Aiden, but the other witcher sat up groggily as soon as Lambert pulled away from him.

“What time is it?” Aiden asked, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Early.” Lambert collected his scattered clothes from the stone floor and slowly began dressing himself. “You can stay in bed if you want. I’m making porridge.”

A shot of Igni to some fresh logs had the fire blazing again in moments. Lambert made porridge the same way his mother had taught him to, all those decades ago. It was rare that he had the luxury of cooking a hot meal on the Path, and he saved his meager supplies for the few special occasions he had left in life to celebrate. The practiced, familiar motions of preparing food were comforting to him.

It wasn’t long before the food was ready. He scooped the steaming porridge into two rough-hewn bowls he’d pulled from his bag and pressed one into Aiden’s waiting hands before flopping down unceremoniously onto the bedroll beside him. The ghost of a smile crossed Lambert’s face as he dug in, remembering the way porridge had tasted when he was a kid in Aedirn. If he really concentrated, he could almost remember the way his mother smelled when she kissed his forehead as he ate breakfast each morning in their little house on the farm.

The memory was as fleeting as the food. Lambert ate like a starving man, his bowl scraped clean and set to the side before Aiden was even halfway done with his portion. Lambert sat back, taking in the sight of Aiden, still naked in the morning light. The bruises Lambert had left on his neck were violently purple against his pale skin. Lambert grinned, satisfied.

Setting his bowl down, Aiden cast a rueful glance over the heap of his ruined and bloody clothes. “What a waste. That gambeson cost me more crowns than I’d like to admit.”

“Guess you’ll just have to fight drowners naked.” Lambert smirked. Aiden’s mouth twisted in dismay. “Okay, fine,” Lambert relented. “Hang on.” He got up and dug through his own jumbled supplies, eventually fishing out his second set of armor. The gambeson was creased in odd places from being stored improperly for so long, but otherwise in good shape. He tossed it to Aiden.

Aiden looked over the clothes with a raised eyebrow before nodding in acceptance. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Lambert packed up the camp while Aiden got dressed, chuckling when the other witcher struggled with the unfamiliar fastenings on the armor. The clothes fit Aiden well enough—they were about the same height, even if Aiden was a little slimmer. Lambert nodded in approval. “You look good in black.”

“I look like you.” Aiden snorted.

“You say that like those are mutually exclusive!” Lambert quipped, tightening the strap on his packed bedroll.

Their supplies collected and the fire extinguished, the witchers ventured outside. The rain had all but washed away the evidence of the battle of the previous day; bloody water dissolving into red clay and churned earth melting into mud puddles all over the clearing. The fiend’s corpse was exactly where Lambert had left it. Its two remaining eyes lolled in their sockets as he used his trophy knife to hack off the head.

With a look of displeasure on his face, Aiden leaned over and snapped a point off one of the horns. “A reminder,” he said, in response to Lambert’s questioning look. Pocketing it, he helped Lambert hoist the hefty trophy. Together, they carried it back toward the village.


	11. Laws of Fate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by the lovely [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion/works)!

The coin they’d made from the fiend contract was just enough for the witchers to justify taking a few days off. Though Aiden’s wounds had healed, he wasn’t quite back at full strength yet, and Lambert had lost his appetite for contracts for the time being. They found their way to a new village, just far enough away from the ruins where everything had changed to stave off the flashbacks that haunted Lambert’s dreams.

There were plenty of empty houses in the wake of the advancing Redanian army—it was a simple matter to rent one of them for a few days from the village ealdorman. He lowered his price in exchange for the witchers exterminating a solitary archespore that had taken up residence in one of the wheat fields nearby. The work was done in less than an hour, and with no injuries to either of them save a tiny scalded spot on Lambert’s neck where a drop the archespore’s caustic venom had landed by chance.

Returning to the village with the husk of the archespore pod, Lambert felt the tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders for weeks on end begin to ease. A reprieve—that’s what his soul had been aching for. He ground his teeth as the coin and trophy changed hands, watching Aiden count out crowns from the meager purse they’d earned for the fiend. Two hundred crowns. The price for Aiden’s life.

He did his best to shake off the sick feeling in his stomach, pushing the smell of Aiden's blood to the back of his mind and trying to lock it up somewhere he'd never find it again. He barely registered any of the words the ealdorman spoke, instead following Aiden mutely to the cottage the man indicated and dropping his bags haphazardly on the floor just inside.

The house was small, just one modestly-sized room arranged around a cooking fire in the center. A bed sat in the far corner; it was small, but passable. Lambert attempted to start a fire in the hearth. While the flame of his Igni caught onto the logs immediately, the chimney wasn't built well and a good amount of smoke blew back down into the house. He extinguished the fire, coughing loudly.

Aiden chuckled, flopping down onto the bed and shrugging out of Lambert's old gambeson. It was strange to Lambert to see the other witcher in a color other than blue. The black of the jacket and cotton shirt beneath seemed unduly harsh against Aiden's fair skin. It was stranger still to see his silver cat's head medallion hanging there over the wolven armor—though nothing to glance twice at for the average villager, Aiden looked like some sort of strange hybrid to Lambert's trained eye.

Abandoning the fire, Lambert began pulling at the buckles of his own armor. He tossed it to the side, where it landed in a heap on top of his bags. He stretched, relishing in the sensation of being free from the heavy leather. Crossing to the bed, he sat beside Aiden, looking down at him with reverent eyes.

“Gods, I hate sleeping on the ground,” Aiden groaned, shifting on the straw-filled mattress.

Lambert was inclined to agree. While the bed was nothing special compared to the nicer ones in the large tower rooms at Kaer Morhen, it beat sleeping in the freezing cold of the wilderness by a long shot. The thick furs layered over it provided almost enough cushioning that if he closed his eyes he could almost forget that they were in the wilderness, hiding amongst strangers, instead of safe in the fortress, behind thick stone walls.

Despite his distaste for what the fortress represented, Kaer Morhen had been Lambert's only home for decades. The village he'd grown up in was long gone, razed to the ground by some army or another in one of the many wars that had transpired since he'd undertaken the Trials. And even if it had still been standing, there was no reason for him to go back. Any happy memories he had left of the place had died along with his mother.

“Hey, you alright?” Aiden asked with concern.

Lambert suddenly became aware of his grave expression and did his best to stomp out his train of thought. “Yeah, yeah—I'm fine.” He sat up, forcing a grin as he looked at Aiden. “So, how do you wanna spend our time off?”

“I had a few ideas,” Aiden growled, pushing Lambert back down onto the bed. He rolled on top of Lambert, grabbing the witcher by his wrists and pinning him to the bed as he pressed his warm lips against Lambert's.

Lambert was never going to get used to this. It was strange, being with someone so familiar. In some ways it felt as if their friendship hadn't changed, and in others everything felt like it was completely awry. Most of Lambert's previous partners had been all but strangers, people who'd flitted in and out of his life as quickly as a moth circling a torch. It was strange, having Aiden still beside him when he woke up in the morning. It was strange moving through the world with Aiden at his side, knowing that so much had changed since the first time they'd set out together. It was strange seeing the way Aiden looked at him, like he already knew what Lambert was thinking without Lambert having to say a word. He was in uncharted waters, a small vessel tossed about on a stormy sea, ever under the threat of capsizing and drowning under the waves.

And yet, he wasn't sure he minded. He liked Aiden. He liked the way Aiden picked at him when they argued. He liked the way Aiden fought, light on his feet and whirling his sword faster and with more precision than any warrior Lambert had ever known. He liked the way Aiden fucked, gasping and pushing back against Lambert as he thrust into him. He liked the way Aiden grinned at him afterward, face flushed and eyelids heavy with sleep.

He liked the way Aiden smelled when Lambert buried his face in his hair when they fell asleep that night.

 

~~~~~~

When the morning dawned, Lambert awoke with a start. He glanced around the hut wildly, forgetting for a moment where he was until his gaze settled on Aiden and he began to relax. His dreams had been uneasy, full of menacing things that flitted through the shadows. He'd only caught glimpses. A crossbow bolt. A broken sword. A witcher's eyes in the dark. Fire. And then nothing—a nothingness so all-encompassing that it swallowed Lambert whole. He breathed steadily through his nose, forcing his heart to slow before sliding out of bed to rekindle the fire.

He glanced out the window—a light rain was steadily falling over the little village. Lambert dug through his bags for food and found the supplies to be lacking. Without an inn nearby, there wasn't a good place to purchase anything new. They'd have to hunt if they wanted to eat. Or maybe even—

Aiden stirred in the bed, and Lambert held his breath for a moment, not wanting to wake him. Digging through his bags again, he selected several bombs and clipped them onto his belt. He thought he remembered passing a lake on the ride to the village, and with the weather being what it was it was a decent day for fishing.

Slipping out the door as quietly as possible, Lambert set off down the dirt path to the south of the village. The mud squelched under his boots as he walked.

Lambert was halfway to the water when he heard Aiden's almost-silent tread fall in beside him.

“I didn't want to wake you up.”

Aiden shrugged. “I was cold.” He stretched his arms, his breath forming a faint cloud in the chilly fall air. “Where are we going?”

“Fishing.”

“You don't have a rod.”

“I don't?” Lambert said, feigning surprise. “Damn. I guess we'll just have to starve then.”

Aiden snorted. “Alright, fine. How exactly do you plan on catching anything?”

“You'll see.”

They reached the boggy shoreline without incident. Lambert pulled two sturdy reeds from the brush and tied a length of old cloth between them, fashioning a makeshift net. He pulled a bomb from his belt and lit it with a spark of Igni. He turned to Aiden. “Cover your ears.”

“What—?”

Lambert lobbed the bomb into the lake and spun around, covering his ears just in time to muffle the worst of the blast. A fine mist of water showered over the witchers. Lambert crouched down, watching the surface of the lake carefully as the waters settled. Slowly, the bodies of two stunned perch came bobbing up to the surface. Lambert scooped them up with the net and dropped them on the rock beside him.

“I can honestly say I've ever seen anyone fish with bombs before.” Aiden looked amused. “Pretty efficient, though it lacks subtlety.”

Lambert grinned. “This is how we do it at Kaer Morhen.” He pulled another bomb from his belt and passed it to Aiden. “Want to give it a try?”

Half an hour later, the air was heavy with the scent of saltpeter and the pile of fish had grown considerably. Lambert was soaked through from the rain, but happy. He took apart his makeshift net and fashioned a sack out of the cloth to carry the fish in.

The witchers began the long trek back to the village. Lambert's stomach growled as he imagined the smell of the fish cooking, salted and fried over the fire. If they were lucky, they might even be able to trade some of the extra perch for a couple eggs and some flour to bread them with.

His thoughts were interrupted by a shriek in the near distance. Aiden turned toward him, one eyebrow raised. “Did you hear—”

“Yes.” When Lambert focused, he could also hear hissing and sloshing. It sounded like it was coming from the shore of the lake, not too far from where they'd been fishing.

“We should go check it out.”

Lambert shrugged. “It's not our problem.”

“That's a shit attitude, Lambert.” For a moment, Aiden looked disappointed in him. “Come on.” He turned sharply and headed off toward the source of the noise. Lambert groaned in exasperation before following.

 

~~~~~~

Lambert had trouble keeping up with Aiden as he sprinted through the undergrowth, only catching occasional glimpses of his back through the brush. The vegetation suddenly gave way as the witchers burst into a clearing.

The source of the hissing was immediately apparent—a horde of drowners was prowling the lake shore, clustered around an upside-down and broken rowboat. There was a man standing atop it, his clothes tattered and skin torn in multiple places. Blood streamed from the lacerations, its scent driving the drowners to frenzy. Their claws scrabbled against the wood of the boat as they desperately tried to sink their teeth into his legs.

The man was armed only with a stick, and was using it to fend off the attacks. He managed to land solid blows on a couple of the drowners, but they only fell back for a moment before rejoining the seething horde.

The man caught sight of the witchers. “Gods, help me! Please! I'll give you anything you want!” Desperation permeated his tone. He cried out as one of the drowners managed to sink a claw into his calf.

Aiden was already charging at the monsters, drawing his silver sword and spinning into a broad attack in one fluid motion. He caught three of the drowners in the back, slicing clean through two of them and heavily wounding a third. With a hiss and a gurgle, they fell to the sandy ground.  
Their interest caught by the scent of fresh blood, several of the monsters turned and fell upon the bodies of their brethren, their beast brains focusing only on the feast. Aiden pirouetted, his blade biting into the rubbery flesh of drowner after drowner as they converged on the growing pile of corpses.

Lambert entered the fray, fighting his way toward Aiden and positioning himself so their backs were to each other. It was easier to fight a crowd of enemies from the inside out—he swung his sword in wide arcs that never failed to connect with something. The remaining drowners had lost interest in the unlucky fisherman. Out of the corner of his eye, Lambert saw him sprinting for the tree line.

The monsters kept coming. Lambert's face was splattered with drowner blood. He wrinkled his nose. Every single part of the damned things smelled like shit. One of them managed to grab onto his arm—he planted his boot on its chest and kicked it away as hard as he could, bringing his sword up and severing its arm at the shoulder as it stumbled backward. Another grabbed onto his ankle, and then a third. They were coming too fast, he couldn't get his feet free, he just needed room to fucking breathe—

"Fuck this!" he yelled in frustration, throwing out his left hand and emitting a blast of Igni that managed to singe most of the remaining drowners. His leg was suddenly free; he spun into a vicious attack, putting all of his rage into the motion of his blade. The monsters fell quickly, their stumbling, clumsy attacks no match for a witcher's silver. Behind him, Aiden was making quick work of the stragglers.

The last monster fell to the ground, its torso still partially on fire and Lambert's sword embedded to the hilt in its face. He pulled it out and wiped ineffectually at the muck smeared across the metal with disdain.

“I fuckin' hate drowners,” he muttered under his breath, eventually just giving up and sheathing the sword dirty. Vesemir would have rolled over in his grave.

“You okay?” Aiden asked breathlessly, sheathing his own sword. Lambert nodded. “You can come out now!” Aiden called in the general direction the fisherman had fled.

A man in a tattered blue jerkin emerged slowly from the brush, bypassing the witchers to examine the damage to the upturned rowboat. “My boat,” he wailed, wringing his hands. “How am I to eke out a living now? Augh, Magda was right...” His voice trailed off as he stared at the wreck, his mouth twisted in dismay.

Lambert cleared his throat pointedly. The man jumped as if touched with a hot poker and whirled around to face the witchers. “Sirs! Thank you for dispatching those beasts. I'd be dead if not for you.”

“Yeah, you would.” Lambert said curtly.

The man squinted at Lambert and Aiden, his gaze lighting upon their medallions. “You're...witchers?”

“You have a problem with that?” Lambert took a step toward the man menacingly. Aiden put a hand on his shoulder and shot him a pointed look.

“I just—I've never seen a witcher in real life!” The man was practically beside himself. “No wonder. I've never seen a man fight like that before!”

“Here's the thing,” Lambert said, speaking slowly, as one would to a child. “Witchers don't work for free.”

The man's face fell. “I...I don't have anything to pay you with.”

Aiden shifted uncomfortably beside Lambert. “Well, there is another option—”

“What do you have in your pockets?” Lambert cut in, ignoring Aiden's questioning gaze. The man dug into the pockets of his shredded trousers and pulled out his hands to reveal a small assortment of junk: a small length of twine, three Nilfgaardian florens, and a smooth pebble the size of a peach pit.

“Good enough.” Lambert held his hand out, and the man handed him the objects. He slipped them into his pocket; the shape of the stone felt strange against his thigh.

“Sorry about your boat,” Aiden said, wiping the look of confusion off his face.

The man shrugged. “Ehh, I'm sure I'll figure something out.” He smiled. “Thank you again. I can make a new rod, and probably fix the boat—but without your help I wouldn't have had any need for them.”

Lambert responded with a curt nod and turned on his heel, heading back into the damp underbrush in the direction of the village.

 

~~~~~~

The witchers walked in silence until they were almost halfway back to the little house, Aiden's brow wrinkled in thought. Eventually, he broke the silence.

“What the hell, Lambert?”

Lambert didn’t respond.

“You could have just—”

“I know what I could have done.” Lambert interrupted. “I didn't want to.”

“Why not?”

Lambert stopped short, rounding on Aiden. “Why?!” he said in disbelief. “You know exactly why! You think I want anything to do with that destiny bullshit? You think I want to damn an unsuspecting child to a miserable witcher existence?”

“It might not have been a child,” Aiden reasoned. “It could have been a horse, or even a chicken. Or some gold. Or a pine cone. That's the point of the Law of Surprise.”

“I'll take my chances.” Lambert ground his teeth and started walking again.

Aiden sighed defeatedly. “Lambert...”

“What do you want me to say?” he said, voice low and shoulders tense. “Are you looking for an apology?”

“No.” Though Lambert couldn't see Aiden's face, he could imagine the hurt expression on it. “I just...Never mind.”

Lambert kept walking, part of him wishing for solitude and part of him glad that Aiden's quiet footsteps were still following behind him.

 

~~~~~~

Lambert sat brooding outside the borrowed house, gutting the fish they'd caught with more force than was necessary. Aiden, implicitly understanding that he wanted space, had kept his distance. Lambert needed to think. He was angry. He wasn't sure if it was at Aiden, at the fisherman, or at destiny itself. Probably all three. Or better yet, the first fucker who'd had the idea to create a race of mutant monster hunters in the first place. Lambert had some choice words saved up for him.

He picked up another fish and jammed his knife into its belly, slitting it open and flinging the innards haphazardly onto the pile that was forming nearby. It had been a good haul. If they salted some of the fish and rationed it, it might last them until they got paid for their next contract. Assuming they survived their next contract.

Lambert made a fist, his knuckles turning white. No matter how hard he tried to repress it, the memory of Aiden getting speared by the fiend kept replaying over and over in his head. The sound he'd made when its horns tore through him kept Lambert awake at night. Given all that had transpired since, he ought to have felt relieved, even happy, but he'd never been very good at feeling things the way he was supposed to. Was that a side effect of the mutations, or had he always been a miserable bastard? He honestly couldn't remember.

He had shouted at Aiden. It hadn't even felt good in the moment, and regret had been steadily growing in him since. He shouldn't have done it. Aiden was pretty much the only person who put up with him at this point. Lambert had no idea what the other man saw in him.

It was still raining softly. Tiny rivulets of water trickled down Lambert's face as he worked. He was soaked to the bone. It was cold, and the sun was all but blocked out by the heavy clouds overhead.

Careful, almost silent footsteps behind him. Lambert didn't turn to acknowledge Aiden's presence, but he didn't push him away either. The other man sat on the boggy ground beside Lambert and wordlessly passed him a bottle.

Lambert removed the cork and took a whiff—pepper vodka. A peace offering. He took a deep draught and passed it back, closing his eyes as the fiery liquor burned its way down his throat. The warmth of it felt good in his stomach, chasing away some of the numbness brought on by the rain.

The witchers sat in silence for a time, taking swigs in turn from the bottle. Finally, Aiden spoke. “I shouldn't have pushed you. I'm sorry.”

Lambert sighed. “Look, I just...I can't. The Law of Surprise already fucked me sideways once. It fucked Geralt and Eskel even harder. I don't want to find out what other plans destiny has for me. None of it matters anyway.”

“Okay.” Aiden ran a hand through his hair, water slicking his curls down flat to his skull. “We won't do it again.”

Lambert nodded, not knowing what else to say. He got the feeling that Aiden still didn't agree with him, but for the moment it was enough to know that he was willing to compromise on it. The ugly knot of anger in his gut was still there, but it was slowly beginning to break up.

“It's colder than Radovid’s heart out here,” Aiden remarked. “You want to head inside?”

Lambert nodded again, sheathing his knife and gathering up the fish. As they returned to the little house, he couldn't shake the feeling that something dark and ugly was looming behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I needed a bit of a break after the events of chapter 10. I'm back in full force now, and updates should be more regular :)


	12. Wintering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by the lovely [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion/works)!

Lambert was relieved when at last he saw the stark walls of Kaer Morhen rising in the distance. It had been a long journey, made worse by the fact that he'd had to ride hard day and night to beat the snows that threatened to close the mountain pass early.

He glanced over his left shoulder to say something to Aiden, as he'd grown accustomed to doing during their travels together, but was met with empty air. He pressed his lips together, internally cursing how his own habits betrayed him. He'd been walking the path for more than half a century, now. He should be able to handle spending one winter alone.

Of course, he'd asked Aiden to come with him. They could have spent the winter together, safe behind thick stone walls. They could have fought and fucked until the ice melted and they were forced back to a life ostensibly lived on the run, with no guarantee of a roof over their heads or a meal to eat.

Aiden had had other plans, though. He'd made an excuse—something about checking on a friend of his named Gaetan—but Lambert was pretty damn sure Aiden had refused because he was afraid of being trapped in the wolves' den. No amount of arguing on Lambert's part could convince Aiden that one of his brothers wasn't going to cut Aiden's throat in his sleep.

On one hand, he got it. Given the history between their two schools, he could understand having hard feelings towards the Cat School witchers. But Geralt was the only one who'd seen the massacre at the tournament first-hand and survived, and no one knew where the fuck Geralt was these days. And Vesemir was too soft to take a knife to old wounds.

It would have been _fine,_ and he'd told Aiden as much. It had hurt when Aiden just smiled sadly, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Lambert's frowning lips. It had hurt when Aiden mounted his horse and rode off to the east, leaving Lambert to journey alone for the first time in months.

Lambert clenched his fist around the reins, angry at himself for being so affected. So what—he didn't need Aiden. He'd gotten by just fine on his own before. He could do it again now.

 _“Look for me in the spring, in Kovir!”_ Aiden had called over his shoulder as he left. Maybe Lambert wouldn't go to Kovir at all. He could just as easily stay in Kaedwen. There was plenty of coin to be made cleaning up minor necrophage infestations, which were cropping up everywhere in the wake of the advancing armies.

He sighed bitterly and spurred his horse onward, wanting to reach the fortress before nightfall.

~~~~~~

The sun slipped below the horizon as Lambert rode up the slope toward the drawbridge. Above him, he could see the braziers and torches that lined the outer walls of the fortress light up, one by one. Vesemir was walking the walls, setting the fires alight as he'd done each night for decades, maybe even centuries. Lambert grinned to himself—the old man was predictable, if nothing else.

There were only two horses in the modest stable: Eskel's pitch black mount, and Vesemir's bay. No sign of Roach—Geralt hadn't made it, after all. Lambert tied up his horse, patting it gently on the head and making sure there was grain in the trough. He'd put it through hell the last couple of days. It deserved a rest.

Returning to Kaer Morhen was always bittersweet for Lambert. It was hard to reconcile the idea of “home” with the things that had happened to him there as a child. He'd managed to eke out some small measure of happiness there in recent years, but the good memories could never eclipse the horrors he'd experienced in his youth.

The massive oak door swung open with a creak that echoed back at Lambert from every angle as he entered the keep. It was dark and cold inside, despite the roaring fire in the hearth. It had been that way for as long as Lambert could remember, although there were a few more scaffolds around than when he'd first been brought to the fortress. It was hard to heat a castle that was missing more walls than not.

Lambert shivered, tossing his bags down at the foot of one of the cots in the main hall and heading straight for the kitchen. There was really only one thing to do at Kaer Morhen in the winter, and that was drink. They all had different reasons for doing it—being sociable, trying to get warm, repressing memories—but the reasons didn't matter. If there was one thing in life that Lambert was especially good at, it was getting shitfaced.

He dug through the cupboards in search of liquor, only managing to turn up a few dusty bottles that had dregs of vodka swilling around in the bottom. He cursed, setting them down roughly and slamming the door. He'd have to make more, then.

An hour later, he was four times as angry and still just as sober. His still had leaked in the months he'd been absent; it was going to require significant repairs before he could produce anything remotely drinkable.

Resigned, he ransacked his potion supplies for a bottle of White Gull and sat at the long table nearest the fire, mulling the harsh taste of it over on his tongue. He stared at the mural on the far wall, not really seeing it, as he puzzled over how to repair the still in his head. Maybe if he just—

“Drinking your potion supplies, Lambert? You know what Papa Vesemir's going to say,” a deep voice said behind him. He started, turning around to see Eskel's scarred face.

“I don't give a good god damn what Papa Vesemir has to say,” Lambert replied, grinning as he stood.

Eskel hummed. “Good to see you, Lambert.” He pulled the witcher into a rough embrace, patting his back with more force than was necessary. “Heard anything from Geralt?” he asked as they broke apart.

Lambert shook his head. “You?”

“Nothing. Vesemir seems to think he's fine, though.”

“Well, I guess he'll show up one of these days.” Lambert shrugged. He offered Eskel the flask of Gull, raising his eyebrow when the other man hesitated. “Oh, come on. No point in being degenerate if I have to do it by myself.”

“Fine.” Eskel accepted it, taking a long draught and sitting down opposite Lambert. He grimaced as the harsh liquor burned its way down, and thrust the flask back across the table. “God, that's awful.”

“Functional, though.” Lambert drank deeply. “When did you get in?”

“About a week ago.”

“Vesemir had you patching walls the entire time?” Lambert said, gesturing at the grey mortar that was smeared on Eskel's armor.

Eskel grimaced again. “You have no idea. It's like he wants to rebuild the whole damn castle before spring.”

“Wouldn't surprise me.” Lambert grinned. “At least I'll be suffering in good company.”

An hour later, the bottle was nearly empty and the faint light that filtered in through the windows of the keep had faded away. Lambert felt almost happy, for the first time since he'd parted ways with Aiden—there was something about Eskel that grounded him, made him feel safe. Complain though he might, he enjoyed winters spent with his brothers.

A disapproving sound from over Lambert's shoulder interrupted the witchers' raucous laughter over one of Eskel's stories.

“Good to see you made it safely, Wolf,” Vesemir said dryly. He eyed the depleted Gull bottle but said nothing about it. “How was the ride?”

“Got a few new scars to show for it, but I'll live.” Lambert took a deep draught of spirit. “Nice to see the place hasn't collapsed yet.”

Vesemir huffed. “Not for lack of trying. We need to shore up the walls. We'll lose access to both towers if they give out. Not to mention the outer courtyard—we're still vulnerable to attack, thanks to those Salamandra assassins.”

Lambert rolled his eyes. “I get it. Don't worry, I'll do my part.”

“Good. We can use the help.” Vesemir nodded at them both and then retreated somewhere into the interior of the keep.

“Still better than spending the winter ankle deep in drowner shit,” Lambert said, holding up the bottle of Gull in a mock toast.

“I'll drink to that,” Eskel said with a crooked grin.

~~~~~~

Lambert quickly remembered exactly how much he hated masonry. He had a very particular skill set—he'd learned to cook from his mother, and he'd learned to kill from Vesemir. He'd learned to patch walls from Vesemir, too, but he’d always strongly suspected that Vesemir didn’t know shit about patching walls.

He was thankful when, at last, there was a reprieve from the dull days of mortar and scaffolding. Vesemir had spotted a royal wyvern flying not far from the keep, and had tasked Lambert and Eskel with exterminating it. Though he'd complained, Lambert was glad—he'd finally managed to get his still working again after days of frustration and failure, and he needed something to do while the mash fermented.

Eskel wasn't the most talkative company, but Lambert appreciated that. He'd hardly been at Kaer Morhen for two weeks, and he already wanted to throw himself into the river. He'd forgotten how much he hated being cooped up like this. He didn't enjoy the Path by any means, but at least when things got rough he could always just pack up and leave. Thanks to the heavy snowfall over the mountains, he didn't have that option here.

Still, it felt good to get out of the keep and stretch his legs. He was ready to vent his frustration on something he could actually hit. A wyvern seemed as good a target as any.

Eskel's amiable silence was interrupted by a screech overhead. The monster was waiting for them—it had probably been observing their progress since they entered its territory. It was big, even for a royal wyvern. Its wingspan must have been more than twenty feet. Its purple-scaled hide glistened in the sun as it circled over them.

“Guess this is as good a place as any.” Eskel unsheathed his silver sword, holding it in his left hand while making the sign of Quen with his right.

“Bring it on.” Lambert gritted his teeth as he drew his own blade.

The wyvern didn't need any invitation. It screeched and plummeted out of the sky like a rock, razor-sharp talons raking through the air where Eskel had been just a moment before.

Eskel rolled, drawing his crossbow as he regained his footing and firing a bolt into its right wing. It shrieked, but remained in the air. The steel barb had gotten stuck in its thick hide, rather than puncturing the wing as intended. Eskel swore under his breath.

“Out of the way, old-timer,” Lambert said cockily, drawing his own crossbow. “Let a professional show you how it's done.”

“Shut up. Sun was in my eyes.”

Lambert grinned and fired. This time the bolt struck true, piercing the beast in its chest. It twisted in the air and fell, its wings crumpling, before hitting the ground with a dull thud.

Eskel was on top of the wyvern before it even hit the ground, sword raised to strike its throat. The attack was so fast Lambert almost couldn't see it, but the wyvern was faster—a flash and a clang, and it had bitten down on Eskel's sword, arresting his motion.

Lambert ran at the monster, blasting it with Aard as he spun to slice into its hide. The wyvern dropped Eskel's sword, but swept out its wing hard toward Lambert. It caught him hard in the chest, talons scraping across the front of his armor as he was thrown backward. He skidded across the snowy ground, barely managing to maintain his footing.

The wyvern rounded on Eskel, whipping its tail back and forth as it advanced on him slowly. It was bleeding heavily from the wounds the crossbow bolts had left—the snow underneath it was saturated. Unfortunately, the pain only made it more dangerous. Eskel held his sword up in front of him, ready to block an attack from any angle.

He failed to anticipate the tail, though. The wyvern struck like a scorpion, and Eskel's Quen broke in a shower of golden sparks. Lambert charged, spinning into an attack just as the tail whipped back around toward him. His blade bit into flesh, slicing the poisoned barb at the end clean off. The monster howled in pain and fury.

A wicked grin of satisfaction curled Lambert's lips.

Eskel had shaken off the worst of the damage and was back in the fight. He hit the wyvern with Aard from the opposite side, knocking it over onto its back. Lambert dove into the opening, slicing into the monster's vulnerable underbelly from tail to ribs. Its shrieks rose in pitch as its entrails came spilling out onto the snow, steam rising from them in the icy air.

Blood poured from the wound, seeping into the snow under Lambert's feet. The monster struggled to right itself, but collapsed back down onto the ground. Its shrieks turned to gurgles as the life slowly drained out of it.

Eskel stood over the monster's head, an expression of disdain on his scarred lips. He raised his sword and plunged it straight down through the wyvern's head.

The gurgling abruptly ceased.

“Not bad.” Lambert raised an eyebrow. “If I didn't know better, I'd almost think you were a decent swordsman.”

“Fuck off,” Eskel said affably. He stooped and wiped the blood and grey matter that smeared his blade off on the snow. Lambert followed suit.

“How's your arm?” he said, gesturing at the place the wyvern's tail had punctured Eskel’s armor.

The other witcher flexed it experimentally. “I'll live. I've had worse.”

“Don't have to tell _me_ that,” Lambert joked, sheathing his sword. It felt like the knot inside him was slowly starting to loosen. It had felt good to fight. It had felt even better to fight with Eskel by his side. He'd always prided himself on being a lone wolf, but damn if it didn't feel right to have someone to share the load. With Aiden it was always—

Aiden.

The knot was back. Lambert ground his teeth, the smile falling from his face as he turned to face the setting sun.

“C'mon, we should get back.” Lambert could tell from Eskel's tone of voice that he'd noticed the abrupt change in his demeanor, but he at least had the tact not to say anything. He followed silently as they began the trek back to the keep.

~~~~~~

Lambert thought about Leo a lot these days.

He'd always seen a lot of himself in the kid—sure, he was much more eager than Lambert had been to learn the trade, but he had a decent head on his shoulders and he was good with a sword. He'd almost beaten Lambert in a sparring match once, and though Lambert never would have admitted it, he hadn't been holding back at all. Leo was a damned good student and a damned good swordsman.

Lambert had appreciated having someone younger to commiserate with. Geralt, Eskel, and Vesemir were older than him by decades. Leo, at least, had been willing to have some fun every now and then. Lambert loved him like a brother.

He'd been fucking furious when Vesemir had first suggested putting Leo through the Trials. Of course, the kid was excited. He didn’t know any better. He _wanted_ to be a witcher. He wanted the mutations and everything that came with him. He just didn't understand the cost. He hadn't seen the things Lambert had seen. Felt the things Lambert had felt.

Lambert was sure that Leo would die if he underwent the Trials. And even if he'd survived, he never would have made it out on the Path. A witcher who couldn't cast signs would always be fighting with one hand tied behind his back.

In the end, he'd lost Leo anyway. The stupid kid had thrown himself at the Salamandra assassins, and had paid for his mistake with his life. He'd never seen the world outside the north, never fucked someone he loved, never gotten his heart broken. He’d never undergone the mutations. He’d never walked the Path.

He’d died a witcher’s death all the same.

They had burned his body in a nice spot. The small hill overlooked the vastness of the valley, golden light filtering through thick snow-covered pines as the sun sank toward the horizon. When the day had all but faded, Lambert lit a small candle at the base of the simple gravestone. Its flickering light reflected dully off the twin swords that were mounted on the rough-hewn marker.

Lambert sat with his back against it, watching the relentless rush of the river flowing by as he took a swig from the bottle of vodka he'd brought with him.

“I told you this world was fucked up,” he said to the empty air. “I told you you'd get yourself killed. Things aren't always as black and white as they seem.”

Lambert tipped his head back against the stone, looking up at the darkening sky. “Fuck, I dunno.” He sighed. “Would it have been better if you’d died during the trials? Or on your first contract?”

The memory of Aiden being tossed back and forth on the fiend's horns like a rag doll sprang into his head, and he forced it back down, gritting his teeth. “Fuck Aiden. Fuck all of this,” he muttered under his breath.

Lambert took another long draught from the bottle and poured an equal measure out on the ground beside him. “There's no heaven for guys like me,” he said grimly. “But I really fucking hope you ended up someplace nice.”

He sat there, alone with the silence, until long after the last light had faded. As he made his way back to the keep, he could see the torches being lit along the outer walls. Beacons in the darkness, leading him back to a home he didn't want.

~~~~~~

Eskel hadn't been kidding—Vesemir really was hell-bent on repairing the whole damn castle before spring.

That wasn't going to happen. The keep was in bad shape, the majority of the roof of the main hall supported by scaffolding and prayers. The way to the armory was blocked, the passage having collapsed the previous spring. The outer walls were crumbling, riddled with holes even before the Salamandra assassins had blasted their way in.

That sure hadn't stopped Vesemir from trying, though. He had them working day in and day out, mixing mortar and clearing debris. Lambert's hair was grey with a constant layer of stone dust, no matter how often he washed it.

The sharp burn of the vodka he swilled did nothing to dull the monotony. A few games of Gwent here and there with Eskel did little to break up the passing days. Lambert spent more and more time away from the keep when he could, suffering the cold to sit by Leo's grave or out on the lake in his boat and drink himself sick. He made a point of ignoring Vesemir's concerned glances when he returned hours later, stumbling slightly, with blue fingers. The old man didn't understand. He'd never understood.

Lambert made a fist against the rough-hewn wood of the kitchen table, grinding his teeth.

“We need to seal up Savolla's breach. We're vulnerable to attack—”

“If anyone wanted to lay siege to the keep, they'd break through in hours anyway,” Lambert shot back. “And even if we did restore Kaer Morhen to its questionable former glory, we can’t defend a fortress this size with three witchers. It doesn’t matter.”

“If we sealed up some of the holes in this place it might be a bit warmer, at least,” Eskel said placatingly.

Lambert sighed. “Look, I’m as much a fan of not freezing my dick off as the next guy, but I’m also partial to not getting crushed to death under a ton of collapsing bricks.” He held up his middle finger, gesturing at the black bruise and swollen knuckle where he’d crushed it the previous day. It still hurt like a bitch, despite the Swallow he’d drunk to fix it. “It’s only a matter of time before this whole place comes crashing down on our pretty little heads.”

“Lambert, you’d do well to learn the value of preserving our history.” Vesemir paused in sharpening his sword, looking up at Lambert from across the table. “These things are important. We shouldn't forget our past, nor should we abandon it. The memories embedded in this place are important.”

“And maybe I don't give a shit about remembering.”

Vesemir looked at him pointedly. “If your drinking habits are any indication, that statement is more than accurate.”

“Mind your own fucking business,” Lambert snarled.

Eskel leaned back in his chair, observing the exchange silently. Lambert made a point of ignoring the meaningful glance the other witcher shot in his direction.

Vesemir sighed wearily, picking up his whetstone again and drawing it along the edge of the blade with practiced movements. “Tomorrow, we're going to work on clearing the way to the armory,” he said, his voice resigned. “I'm sure there are some weapons in there that could be useful to us.”

Lambert slammed his fist against the table, ignoring the hot spike of pain that shot through his injured hand. “No. I'm done.” He stood, shoving the bench he was sitting on away from the table. “Open your fucking eyes, Vesemir! This place is fucking miserable. It's time to cut our losses and leave. There's nothing here worth saving.”

Vesemir froze, staring down at his sword silently. Lambert gritted his teeth. Eskel looked intensely uncomfortable, observing Lambert and Vesemir as if he was uncertain of which one of them was going to need to be protected from the other.

No fight broke out, though. Vesemir stood, pocketing his whetstone, and sheathed his sword. He turned without a word and walked away, slinging his swordbelts over his shoulder as he went.

He didn't stop when he reached the massive oak doors of the keep, pushing past them into the courtyard. They fell shut behind him with a low boom, and Lambert and Eskel were left in silence.

Eskel looked at Lambert reproachfully, but said nothing. He rose from his seat by the fire, meandering off into the keep with a book he'd snagged from one of the scattered shelves, leaving Lambert alone with his words still hanging heavy in the air.

~~~~~~

Days went by, and Vesemir didn't return. It took Lambert almost a week to admit to himself that he was concerned. Winters in the north were harsh and unforgiving. Even a witcher couldn't survive out in the cold indefinitely.

“Do you think he's coming back?” Lambert asked Eskel one night, over a bowl of potato stew he'd cooked for the two of them.

Eskel sighed. “I'm sure he will, eventually.”

“Where could he even have gone? The pass is blocked until spring.”

“Beware the old man in a land where men die young.” A smile curled the edges of Eskel's scarred lips. “Give Vesemir some credit, Lambert. He'll be back, sooner or later. He can fend for himself.”

They left it at that, finishing their meal in the amber glow of the fire and passing the rest of the evening with vodka and Gwent. Eskel was a lousy partner, and Lambert won every game in the first two hands.

It was almost a month before Vesemir finally returned, slipping into the keep just as silently as he'd left. He dropped his swords by his bed and sat by the fire, warming his hands. He and Lambert didn't exchange words.

They didn't need to.


	13. The Land of Plenty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by the lovely [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion)!
> 
> 10/30: NEWS! I am taking the month of November to focus on finishing this fic during NaNoWriMo. As a result, there may not be an update until NaNo is over. It all depends on how busy I get. I want chapters to come to you well-edited and at their highest possible quality. Once it's over, we should be back on course with regular updates until all chapters are posted. I love and appreciate every single one of you for sticking with me so far! <3

_“Look for me in the spring, in Kovir!”_

Lambert had made a point of riding south from Kaer Morhen when the mountain passes thawed instead, into the ravaged land that had once been the proud kingdom of Kaedwen.

Nekkers, drowned dead, rotfiends—the pile of contracts was seemingly never-ending. He filled his pockets with the meager coin he earned from burning their nests, telling himself that he was perfectly content to walk the path alone. And for a while, that was true. He slept alone by the fire and drank himself sick in seedy roadside taverns.

He didn't realize that he'd been slowly heading north until he found himself among the steep mountains at the edge of Kovir. As much as he'd tried to suppress his desire to see Aiden again, his subconscious had betrayed him.

The whole damn country was miserably rainy, and there was no reprieve from the constant grey drizzle the entire ride to Lan Exeter. Lambert arrived in the outskirts of the city pissed off and soaked to the skin. He paid the fistful of crowns it would cost to stable his horse outside the city walls—it wouldn't be any use to him here, anyway.

The winter capital of Kovir was a city made of rivers. Wide canals took the place of roads, murky water slowly flowing past the grandiose marble houses of the kingdom's wealthiest citizens. Their narrow, stilted facades were inlaid with bronze and copper, gemstone details dotting the reliefs, a tribute to the mines and quarries that had built the country into what it was. Mages roamed freely here, dressed in colorful and stately clothing, in sharp contrast to the dark and grimy cloaks they'd been forced to wear in Novigrad to avoid the witch hunters' wrath. The far north was another world entirely from the rest, its splendor as yet untouched by war.

It didn't take Lambert long to find Aiden. Even from behind, even soaked through by rain and on the other side of a crowded square, Lambert would know that silhouette anywhere. He'd had new armor made during the winter—it was a slimmer cut, an even deeper shade of blue than his old set, with thin plates of dark metal set into it. His hood was up, though Lambert doubted that had anything to do with the rain. Aiden moved through cities like a ghost, always desperate to hide his face from the crush of passing townspeople.

He made his way across the slick cobblestone of the market toward the notice board, not knowing if he wanted to kiss Aiden or punch him. He was about three meters away when Aiden looked over his shoulder, a knowing half-smile curling his lips as his piercing golden eyes made contact with Lambert's. Like he'd known Lambert was going to show up here, now, all along.

“Son of a whore,” Lambert muttered under his breath. “I'm going to kill him.”

 

~~~~~~

Lambert was anything but gentle as he slammed Aiden back against the wall of their rented room at the inn. He kissed Aiden roughly, biting his lip too hard on purpose. Aiden hissed, a drop of crimson welling up where Lambert's teeth had sunk into his lip.

Aiden raised his hand to touch the spot, blood smearing under his fingertips. He looked down at the red stain and grinned cockily. “Miss me?”

“Fuck you.” Lambert snarled, fisting his hands in Aiden's hair and pulling him closer. Damn, it felt good to feel Aiden's warm body against his. It felt good to breathe in that familiar juniper and musk scent of him, to bury his face in Aiden's scarred neck and drink him in.

It pissed Lambert off to realize how much he'd missed him.

He dragged his lips down Aiden's neck, following the lines of his scars to where they disappeared under the neck of his armor. Aiden's hands were pulling at Lambert's own gambeson, deftly locating and undoing the buckles and ties. The armor fell from Lambert's shoulders, hitting the floor with a muffled thump.

Lambert struggled with Aiden's jacket, his fingers unable to penetrate the plates of thin metal to find the hidden clasps that held it together. Frustrated, he pushed away from Aiden, giving him space to remove it himself. His eyes dragged over Aiden's body as the armor fell away, taking in the way his shirt clung to his chest, the delicious way the flush on his face continued down his neck, the ravenous look in his eyes.

Lambert wanted to take him apart.

He practically tore Aiden’s shirt off, kissing him hungrily as he wrestled him toward the bed. To hell with propriety, decency, patience—he wanted Aiden. He wanted him everywhere, wanted to feel Aiden’s skin against his, wanted the feeling of Aiden’s ragged breathing against his collarbone, wanted Aiden’s fingernails digging into his back.

The two of them toppled onto the lumpy mattress, tangled up in each other. Lambert grinned into the kiss, feeling the hardness of Aiden’s cock against his thigh. He rolled his hips against it, savoring Aiden’s gasp and the way he tightened his grip on Lambert’s shoulder.

Lambert shoved his hand down Aiden’s trousers, palming his cock. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Aiden’s jaw as the other man tipped his head back, wrapping his fingers around it and beginning to stroke. Aiden hummed appreciatively, shifting his hips and pushing down his trousers to make things easier.

Letting go of Aiden, Lambert broke away to pull his trousers the rest of the way off, throwing them carelessly to the ground. God, the sight of him, naked and wanting, his cock flushed and straining against his stomach, was so fucking satisfying. He hooked his arms around Aiden’s thighs, using the leverage to drag him closer.

Lambert settled himself between Aiden’s legs, digging his fingers into Aiden’s hips as he pressed his lips to Aiden’s thigh. He sucked hard on the sensitive flesh, savoring the hiss of mixed pleasure and annoyance he got in return. That was definitely going to leave a bruise.

He kissed his way up Aiden’s thigh until his nose was buried in the soft curls of chestnut hair at the base of his cock. God, he wanted to taste Aiden. Wanted to drink him in. He dragged his lips across the velvety skin of Aiden’s cock, the other man propping himself up on his elbows to watch as Lambert pressed a kiss to its tip and then took it into his mouth.

“Shit—” Aiden let out a strangled groan as Lambert began to move his head up and down. He massaged Aiden’s cock with his tongue and wrapped his hand around the base, stroking in time with his movements.

Aiden’s breath was ragged. He ran a hand through Lambert’s hair, knotting his fingers in Lambert’s dark locks. Lambert looked up to meet his gaze and was struck by his expression—mouth open, brow furrowed, eyelids heavy—one that, if he hadn’t known better, might have been interpreted as one of intense pain.

Lambert sucked hard, dipping his head down and swallowing Aiden to the hilt. The other man gasped, arching up into Lambert’s mouth, tightening his grip on Lambert’s hair. Lambert pulled back for air and then did it again. The taste of Aiden, the thickness of him in Lambert’s mouth, the look in his eyes, it was sexy as hell. Lambert _wanted_ him, wanted him more than he’d ever wanted anything.

Aiden pulled Lambert off of him roughly, dragging him up to his mouth and planting a kiss on his swollen lips. “ _Fuck me,_ ” he said, looking directly into Lambert’s eyes, his voice insistent and full of desire. He bit Lambert’s lip and Lambert groaned, his neglected cock throbbing inside his trousers.

He jumped up and shucked them off in record time, sinking back onto the bed to kneel behind Aiden. He looked around wildly, unable to remember where he’d put the oil, but Aiden was already pressing the small vial into Lambert’s hand. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and coated his fingers with it, shaking slightly as he wrapped them around his dick and stroked. The coolness of it felt good on his hot and aching flesh.

Lambert gripped Aiden’s hips, running his hands over the curve of his ass. He used his oil-slicked fingers to trace Aiden’s entrance, groaning at the heat that was coming off him. He looked at Aiden, one eyebrow raised, his question left unspoken, but understood.

“God, yes,” Aiden growled, fisting his hands in the threadbare sheets. “Do it,” he breathed.  
  
Lambert felt his face flush hot, a jolt of energy surging down his neck at the feel of Aiden’s warm breath against his ear. He gripped his cock at the base, lining it up with Aiden’s body, and pushed slowly inside.

It felt like he was gone from his body, ascended to some other plane of existence entirely, when he fucked Aiden. He was still aware of the way Aiden’s lips parted when Lambert thrust into him, of his own deep growl at the look on Aiden’s face, of digging his fingers into Aiden’s hips hard enough to bruise, of slamming into him faster and faster, hard enough to make them both sweat bullets and gasp for air.

He was aware of all these things, but it was like he experienced them from a different angle—somewhere in the motion of his hips, he lost his usual sardonic self and became something more. It was like the barriers between them dissolved when they fucked—they were one mind, one body, one soul.

The creak of the bed frame and scratch of the straw-filled mattress on Lambert’s knees were lost against the sensation of Aiden’s body, hot and tight around Lambert’s cock. Of Aiden’s hands fisted in Lambert’s hair, dragging him closer to kiss him violently. Of Aiden’s warm breath against his skin.

Lambert reached down and wrapped his fist around Aiden’s cock, pumping in time with his thrusts. He dipped his head to bite at Aiden’s neck, sucking hard on the scarred flesh there, as Aiden inhaled sharply.

“Oh, fuck—” Aiden gasped out, his hips stuttering in their reciprocal motion. “I can’t—”

Lambert canted his hips, rolling them hard with every thrust. He nipped at Aiden’s earlobe, biting harder than necessary. “Come for me,” he growled quietly, and Aiden arched under him, his muscles contracting hard around Lambert as he gasped and came in spurts onto Lambert’s stroking fingers.

Lambert’s face flushed hot at the feeling of Aiden’s body squeezing tight around him, his ragged gasping, his moans. He sped up, feeling the heat and tension that had been building in him come to a peak, and then pleasure was shooting through him like a jolt of electricity, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he shuddered and groaned, all thought drowned out by the intensity of his orgasm.

When he came back to himself, his face was pressed into the back of Aiden’s neck, his fingers intertwined with Aiden’s as the other man breathed softly under him. Aiden brought their hands gently up to his lips and pressed a kiss to Lambert’s knuckle.

“Damn,” he murmured. “I missed you, Wolf.”

 

~~~~~~

Aiden and Lambert lay together in the dim candlelight of the rented room. Lambert had wrapped himself around Aiden, his head pillowed on Aiden's shoulder and his leg slung over the warmth of Aiden's hips. It felt like hours before Lambert finally broke the silence between them.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Aiden smirked. “Nice to see you, too.” He shifted his arm under Lambert, pulling him closer. “I've been all over the place. Picked up a few contracts here and there, finally managed to catch up with Gaetan—though that took a few weeks, whoreson's hard to find when he doesn't want to be—generally froze my ass off. How was Kaer Morhen?”

“Fucking awful. Vesemir had us playing brickmason all winter. Not enough vodka in the world to make up for that. Would have been a lot more tolerable if you'd come with me.”

Aiden sighed. “Lambert, we talked about this—”

“I know, I know.” Lambert made a fist against Aiden's chest. “Doesn't mean I'm fine with it, though.”

“I'm sorry.” A frown of dismay twisted Aiden's flushed lips. “Maybe someday.”

“Yeah…” Lambert let his voice trail off. Someday. Someday was a damn lie. Someday was something people said when they really meant never.

Aiden cleared his through uncomfortably. “Uh...anyways. I picked up a contract for us a couple days back, if you're interested.”

“What kind of contract?”

Aiden grinned. “A giant.”

“Bullshit.” Lambert sat up, looking back at him incredulously. “A giant.”

“You heard me.”

Lambert raised his eyebrow.

“My thoughts exactly. Want to check it out?”

Pausing for a moment to mull things over, Lambert cracked his back and then sighed. “Fuck it, why not. Got nothing else to do. Guessing it pays well?”

“Does a succubus have tits? This is Kovir. Reward's a small fortune.”

Lambert grinned, reaching for the bottle of vodka on the dresser next to the bed. “Count me in.”

 

~~~~~~

The byways surrounding the city meandered alongside the many rivers that fed the great canal. Lambert and Aiden had been hiking for hours, navigating their way up stony slopes into the mountains.

Lambert huffed as they climbed a steep hill. They’d been at it for hours, but still hadn’t reached the site of the caravan attack they were supposed to be investigating. Damn, he was out of shape. He tried to push through the exhaustion, but between the cold and the slimy mud of the path, he was fighting a losing battle.

He stopped, plopping down unceremoniously on a nearby rock. Aiden smirked. “Worn out already, Lambert? Don’t tell me a few weeks off the path turned you soft.”

“Fuck off, I was hungry.” Lambert dug a strip of fatback out of his bag and chewed it pensively. “Not my fault we have to walk halfway across the goddamn world.”

Aiden sat on the rock beside him. “Well, If you’re going to stuff your face, you might as well share.”

Lambert rolled his eyes and passed his bag to Aiden. “By the way, what makes the locals think this thing is a giant?”

“Dunno.” Aiden shrugged. “The councillor who posted the notice said something about big footprints, but that could mean anything. All they really care about is that caravans are being attacked, and they’re losing coin.”

“So we’re going into this blind?” Aiden nodded, and Lambert sighed. “Great.” He shoved the rest of the fatback back into his bag and stood. “Come on, let’s—”

A whistle and a thud.

Lambert's medallion vibrated suddenly as a crossbow bolt slammed into a tree trunk just inches from his head. He flew to his feet, sword drawn and up just in time to parry the second bolt, which would have struck him between the eyes. The reverberation of metal striking metal thrummed through his arm.

“Show yourselves, you goddamn cowards!” he yelled into the forest surrounding them.

“Lambert,” Aiden hissed in a warning tone. The two of them stood back-to-back, swords held at the ready.

All around them, shadowy shapes emerged from the trees. Humans—bandits, by the look of them. The muddy colors of their tattered clothing helped them blend in seamlessly with the environment. At least three of them had crossbows trained on Lambert and Aiden.

A muscular woman with a haughty face stepped forward from the others. In one hand she carried a longsword; in the other, an evil-looking dagger. The edges of both blades gleamed with oil. Lambert's sensitive nose burned with the scent of archespore venom.

“Alrighty, lads, I think we all know what's going to happen here.” Though she spoke Common, her voice had a strange lilt to it, like she'd spent years in some forgotten land. “My men outnumber you eight to one. Let's make this easy—you hand over your swords, your coin, everything in your pockets, and I'll let you walk away with your lives.”

Lambert bristled. “The only way you're taking my swords is off my cold, dead body.”

The woman smirked. “That can easily be arranged.”

Lambert took a half-step forward, and one of the crossbow wielders tightened his grip on the trigger menacingly. Lambert rolled his eyes. “Try it, you whoreson. See what happens.”

Aiden elbowed him hard in the back. “For once, can you try not to escalate things?” he muttered.

“No promises.”

Aiden sighed. “Look,” he said to the bandit collective. “Let's be reasonable about this. You've seen our swords. You see our medallions. You know what we are. You know you're not going to walk away from this. We have no quarrel with you—better we all just go our separate ways. No harm done. What do you say?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “I care about two things—that each of the swords on your back can fetch five hundred crowns, and that you've seen my face. Either of those reasons would be enough for you not to leave here alive.” She gestured, and the bandits drew their blades in unison. “Kill them,” she said disinterestedly, turning and walking away. “When it's done, bring their swords and medallions to me.”

“So much for talking things out,” Lambert said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Fuck you.”

The bandits advanced on them slowly, tightening the circle around the witchers to close off any routes of escape. For a moment, it felt as if the air had been sucked out of the clearing—the calm before the storm.

A whistle and a clang, and all hell broke loose.

Aiden parried the crossbow bolt that flew at him, deflecting it back toward the man who'd fired it. The bolt struck him in the throat. He fell to the ground, gurgling as arterial blood sprayed out from the wound.

His brothers rushed past him, charging the witchers with no rhyme or reason. A large man with a warhammer swung at Lambert; he ducked, letting the man's momentum carry him past, and put his sword through his back as soon as he was clear.

The fight was a blur. Aiden, light on his feet as ever, spun and twirled through the fray. Bodies fell all around him, sometimes hitting the ground before blood even began to well from the wounds the razor edge of his sword rent in their flesh.

Lambert gave himself over to his adrenaline, letting his muscle memory carry him through the fight. Cut low, pirouette, parry high—ears open, eyes open. Just like the pendulums.

He'd imagined fights like this, before he'd gone through the trials. Balancing on narrow walls in the Kaer Morhen courtyard, whacking at dummies with a wooden sword.

He hadn't had signs back then, though.

Lambert threw out the sign of Aard, knocking the bandit who was charging at him to the ground. He plunged his sword through the man's chest, whirling around just in time to kick the crossbow a second thug was aiming at him out of his hands. He followed with his sword, opening up a gaping wound in the man's chest.

The enemies were thinning, and so was Lambert's patience. He spun, dodged, and slashed, his heart pounding in his ears as the bandits fell one by one around him. The scent of burning meat filled his nose as the sparks of Aiden's Igni singed the flesh of the remaining attackers.

It wasn't hard to mop up the rest after that. Blinded, burnt, or otherwise wounded, the thugs succumbed to the witchers' steel.

Lambert sauntered over to Aiden, grinning. “Told you we could take them.”

“I would have rather not,” Aiden said wearily, wiping away the blood that was spattered across his face.

Lambert grimaced. “Any of that yours?”

“What do you think?” Aiden knelt and wiped his blade on the jerkin of one of the fallen bandits before sheathing it.

Lambert was thinking that Aiden looked sexy when he was flushed and sweaty, but he kept it to himself. He had a feeling he might end up getting punched if he pushed too hard right now.

“This seemed like an unusually organized bandit operation,” Aiden said thoughtfully. “I wonder if they're the ones who've been attacking the caravans.”

“Maybe,” Lambert said, looking around at the scattered bodies. “That wouldn't explain the 'giant footprints,' though. This guy is average at best.” He nudged one of the larger bodies with his boot.

“What about the boss? Maybe there's more to this that we're missing, somehow.” Aiden furrowed his brow, examining a body carefully.

Lambert rolled over another of the bandits with his foot. “Might be hard to track her down. These guys moved like Scoia'tael—I didn't hear them until they were already on top of us. Did you?”

Aiden shook his head.

“Huh. Well, they're not moving like anything now,” Lambert said darkly.

“That's true,” Aiden said with a sigh. “We should burn them before something catches the scent.”

Lambert hummed in agreement and began dragging bodies to make a pile, stripping the bandits' pockets of any valuables as he did so. Though the air was cold and damp, Lambert was still sweating by the time they were done.

A dousing of oil and a shot of Igni, and flames sputtered to life before them. Pale flesh blistered and charred as the flames licked across it. Lambert wrinkled his nose as the acrid smoke that rose from the smoldering bodies drifted up around his face.

“We could always just head back,” he offered. “Regroup and start again tomorrow. I don't know about you, but I'm already sore from that.”

Aiden smirked. “You _have_ gotten soft.”

“Oh, fuck off—” Lambert's medallion vibrated, and he broke off mid-sentence, hand flying to the hilt of his sword as he whirled around, expecting to find another attacker inches away from sinking a blade into his heart.

Instead, he found himself face-to-face with an extremely pissed off rock troll.

“What the fuck?” he yelped, scrambling backward as the troll growled at him, lips peeling back to bare uneven yellow teeth.

Instead of advancing, the troll pushed roughly past him and stomped over to the pile of burning corpses, reaching into the flames and roughly tearing a limb from one of the plumper bandits. It bit into the charred flesh with vigor, tearing the muscle from the bone with an obscene wet noise.

“There's your giant footprints,” Aiden said under his breath to Lambert, nodding at the troll's tracks in the thick mud. “Troll was just doing cleanup.”

“Great,” Lambert muttered, eyeing it warily as it feasted. “I'm really not in the mood to fight one of these dumb bastards today.”

“Fight it?”

“We need its head for the bounty, don't we? Council's expecting us to slay a giant. If we come back without a giant, they're not gonna pay us.”

Aiden looked at him reproachfully. “Lambert, it's clearly not a giant. And we don't even know if it's done anything wrong. It could just be a carrion eater.”

“You really think the council can tell the difference between species of ogroid? This is Kovir—they don't care as long as the job is done. And we could really use the coin.”

“Trolls are sapient, Lambert.”

“Barely.” Lambert rolled his eyes. “Would we really be doing the world such a great disservice?”

“Do what you want, Lambert.” Aiden sheathed his sword. “There are some lines I don't cross. I'm not going to be a part of this.” He turned his back and began walking away.

Lambert made a fist. “Fine, see if I care,” he muttered, drawing his sword.

 

~~~~~~

Hours later, Lambert made his way back into the darkened city with the heavy, gravelly head of the troll hanging from his trophy hook. His muscles ached, and his teeth hurt from clenching them. Resentment swelled in him, a bitterness he could physically taste on his tongue.

What did he care? Why was it so goddamn important what Aiden thought? And why the hell was it upsetting him so goddamn much?

It shouldn't have mattered. If it had been Eskel, or Geralt, or even Vesemir, Lambert would have done the exact same thing without a second thought. But now...

He stopped on a bridge over the canal, forcing himself to unclench his teeth as he stared down into the inky water. Its surface glimmered in the torchlight with a sheen of oil, a stain that spread out over the river like the anger that clung to the inside of his chest.

Aiden. Aiden had only been in his life for a few months, and his presence had sent Lambert spiraling out from the habits he'd kept for decades into the unknown. Lambert had never had a problem with just leaving when a problem arose. When he'd argued with lovers in the past, he'd just gathered his swords and walked out the door without so much as a glance behind him. Lambert had walked the path alone before. He should have been able to again.

And yet he was here, in Kovir. He'd returned to Lan Exeter. He could have just taken the coin and headed south, but he hadn't. And he wasn't going to. He couldn't bring himself to.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, glaring at his own distorted reflection. At the scar over the golden eyes that gleamed back at him like coals from some cursed forge.

His life was a goddamn mess.

 

~~~~~~

It was almost dawn when Lambert finally crept back into their rented room at the inn. He set the coin pouch down on the dresser wordlessly and pulled off his swordbelts.

Aiden eyed him stonily from his spot by the fire. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was gripping his steel sword tightly in his hands. A whetstone and a bottle of oil were set to the side—he’d been taking his emotions out on his blade again. The metal was worn thin by years of compulsive oversharpening.

Lambert sat on the bed and rested his head in his hands. He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. When he looked up, Aiden was watching him with a guarded expression.

Lambert met his gaze, struggling with himself. “I'm sorry,” he said, finally.

Aiden didn't reply. Instead, he set his sword to the side and moved to sit beside Lambert on the bed. Aiden reached out and took his hand, coaxing his clenched fingers apart. Lambert leaned into his touch, letting the tension bleed out of him. All that was left unsaid hung heavily in the air between them.

It was already dawn by the time Lambert finally managed to close his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, baby (and so is Aiden)! I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story so far.


	14. Many Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by the lovely [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion)!

The events of the previous day hung over Lambert's head like a dark cloud as he stared murderously into his porridge. Aiden sat silent across from him in the sparsely populated tavern, shooting him occasional glances that seemed to be full of some hidden meaning. Lambert didn't care to pick his intentions apart, though. He'd barely slept two hours, and the only thing worse than the taste of his breakfast was the pounding in his head.

Carts rolled by in a steady procession on the street outside. A rare sunny day signaled the arrival of what passed for spring in Kovir, and that meant a mass exodus from the winter capital of Lan Exeter to the summer capital in Pont Vanis. The witchers would most likely have to follow—contracts tended to dry up along with the populace, and the notice board outside the inn was already practically bare.

Lambert's already sour mood turned fouler as he ruminated on the idea of spending a day in the saddle. He'd spent the better part of the past week riding to Kovir in the first place. More riding was the last fucking thing he needed. He'd rather spend the day collecting chort shit for lures.

“I know, but we have to,” Aiden said, as if he'd read Lambert's mind. “Coin's good here, but only if there's work to be done. What you got for the troll isn't going to last us long.”

“You think I don't know that?” Lambert sighed and pushed his watery porridge away, having given up on it tasting like anything at all. “There damn well better be decent food there. This is a tragedy.”

Aiden snorted. “Yeah, I've smelled wight brews that were more appealing than this. I prefer yours.”

“Damn right.” Against his best efforts, Lambert found himself grinning. “Used up all my supplies on the ride here, though. I'll try to get more the next time we get paid—”

He was interrupted by the muffled jingling of a coin pouch hitting the table in front of him. “Hello, boys,” a voice with a familiar foreign lilt said behind him. The acrid scent of archespore venom stung his nose.

The hairs on Lambert's neck stood on end. “Shit,” he muttered, hand reaching instinctively for the pommel of his sword. Across from him Aiden had done the same, and was eyeing the new arrival with a guarded expression.

The woman sighed. “There's really no need for that.” She sat on the edge of the table, placing her palm down on the wood beside the sack of coin. A longsword and dagger were sheathed at her belt; the hint of a smirk curled her lips just as it had in the clearing the previous day.

“You tried to kill us yesterday,” Aiden said. “Forgive me for not being the trusting type.”

The woman chuckled. “If I still wanted you dead, you wouldn't have seen me coming.”

“How about we cut the shit and get straight to the point?” Lambert said, hand still gripping his sheathed sword. “I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm pissed as hell. I'm not in the mood for conversation.” He nodded at the leather pouch. “What's the hell is that?”

“Payment.”

“Payment for what?” Lambert's exasperation bled heavily into his tone.

“For services rendered.” The woman crossed her legs and looked at him expectantly.

Lambert narrowed his eyes. “Don't remember taking a contract from you.”

“No, I suppose you didn't. Not in the traditional sense, at least.”

Aiden shot Lambert a warning glance, and the cutting remark Lambert was about to spit in the woman's direction died on his tongue. “Go on,” Aiden said evenly, watching her with eyes that said nothing of the thoughts behind them.

“You killed my men. More than a dozen of them, in fact. All excellent fighters, many of them trained under me. And yet here you sit, nary a scratch on your skin. It appears I’ve underestimated you severely.”

“In all fairness, we did warn you,” Aiden said.

The woman waved her hand as if to dismiss him. “That's neither here nor there. Those men clearly weren't up to my standards. You've done me an enormous favor by culling the weak blood from my fighters. I can start anew—train them to be faster, smarter. More agile.” She pushed the coin pouch across the table toward Lambert. “This would have been their share of the take from yesterday. It seemed like fair compensation.”

“Really? Fair compensation?” Lambert bristled. “For trying to murder us in cold blood so you could sell our swords to the highest bidder?”

“Yes.” The woman raised an eyebrow, looking at him like he was some sort of imbecile. “Of course. Does something about that concept not make sense to you?”

“You know what?” Lambert said, shoving the coin back toward her. “Keep it. I don't want your blood money.”

The woman shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said, picking up the pouch and tucking it into her pocket. “It's a cold, cruel world out there, Vatt'ghern. Best to keep a close eye on your enemies, and a closer one on your allies.” She grinned wickedly and stood. “Be seeing you,” she said lightly over her shoulder as she made her way toward the door. A flash of green eyes and a smile, and she was lost amongst the crush of people making their way through the streets.

“Well,” Aiden said thoughtfully after several moments of silence. “That was certainly unsettling.”

~~~~~~

The weather held out for the duration of the ride to Pont Vanis, if only just. The evening sun filtered weakly through a veil of grey clouds. As the witchers reached the city walls, a few scattered drops of rain began to fall.

The city rose up above them like a mountain, its streets winding their way upward and inward toward the palace at its zenith. The inky blue waters of the North Sea rippled lazily in the distance, the lines formed by the extensive breakwaters of the bay made obvious by the way the waves stopped short upon meeting them.

The witchers rode upward and inward, entering through an ornate gate in a sandstone wall that was easily six times a man’s height. The city stirred as if awakening from a long slumber—all around them, windows were being opened, houses swept out, vendors setting up their carts and crying their wares on the street corners. The sizzle of fish frying seemed to permeate the air. A spirit of hopefulness, of new beginnings, positively radiated from every cobblestone.

Lambert hated it.

He was exhausted, painfully sober, and his ass hurt like hell from the ride. Every smile on the face of the passersby felt like a personal offense. He didn’t give a shit about the changing seasons, traditions, or sunny weather. All he wanted was a mug of good beer, chased with some strong vodka and then a bed to pass out in until all memory of the past two days was erased entirely from his mind.

The alcohol portion of those desires was solved easily enough. Lambert and Aiden stopped at an inn a third of the way up the city’s slopes, stabling their horses out back in a covered alley that passed for a barn. Though the tavern was in a seedier area of Kovir’s summer capital, it was luxurious by Temerian standards. The floors were clean, the drinks were cold, and the innkeep was welcoming. She whisked their coin away and returned with two enormous bowls of leek soup, some exceptionally good cold beer, and the promise of a roast chicken. Lambert could smell rosemary mingling with the drips of fat that fell into the fire. His stomach growled.

No words were spoken between the witchers for the duration of their meal—less because of tension than because Lambert was too busy stuffing his face to talk. When he at last gave up on picking the last scraps of chicken off the bones, he turned on the bench he was sitting on and leaned back against the wall, taking a deep draught from his third mug of beer.

“Alright,” he said begrudgingly, “I’ll admit that the food almost made up for the ride here.”

“Knew you’d come around eventually,” Aiden said with a grin, emptying his own mug. “Should be plenty of contracts out for us, too. You know how much they pay for an ekhidna here? We could stay for months, if we wanted to.”

The thought of not having to ride anywhere for a good long while was appealing to Lambert. “Bet there’s good fishing here, too,” he remarked. “I’m not married to the idea yet, but if the first couple contracts go well I’d be open to the idea of staying a while. Always nice to have a solid roof over your head.”

“We can look for work tomorrow,” Aiden said, pushing his dishes to the side. “In the meantime—Gwent?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

Lambert managed to locate his deck after a few minutes of searching, and beat Aiden handily in the first two rounds. The inevitable rematch left him considerably poorer and fleeced out of one of his better cards, though.

“Fuckin’ stroke of luck,” Lambert slurred, taking a swig from the bottle of vodka the two of them were sharing.

Aiden grinned, his face and neck flushed with liquor in a way that appealed deeply to Lambert. “Or maybe you’re just not as talented as you think you are,” he shot back coyly.

“You’ll pay for that one later,” Lambert growled, leaning across the table so no one would be able to hear the low rumble of his voice but Aiden. The other man flushed a deeper red, returning Lambert’s gaze through the fringe of his eyelashes.

The moment was sadly interrupted by the unexpected arrival of a newcomer—a stocky young man with brown hair cropped close to his skull and a full beard. Lambert glared at him with perhaps more vitriol than was necessary as the newcomer sat on the bench beside him, setting the vodka bottle down on the table with a solid thunk.

“Game's already over, pal,” he said curtly. “Not looking for any spectators.”

“That's fine. I'm not interested in Gwent,” the man replied. “Sorry—you're witchers, right? My name is Carl. I have a job for you.”

“Land of opportunity,” Lambert muttered as he raised the vodka to his lips for another draught. A smile curled Aiden's lips. “So,” he said, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Got a monster problem?”

“Of a sort.” Carl closed his eyes for a moment as if he were collecting his thoughts. “Look, I'm a fisherman. Not the most pleasant of jobs, but the work is at least steady. The sea is fruitful here. I'd carved out a nice little place for myself. Got myself a house—not a big one, mind you, but livable—always had plenty to eat, and was promised the hand of the most beautiful lass I'd ever laid eyes on. I was happy.” He paused, taking a deep breath.

“Then _it_ came. Ugly beast—twisted, scaled, covered with slime. It took my beloved from where she lay sleeping beside me. I awoke one morning to find a trail of slime and nail marks on the floor that led to the docks nearby. I never saw her again.” He swallowed. “It follows my boat when I cast off, scares all the fish away. No matter where I sail, how far I go, it's always just behind me. Watching. Waiting. Makes my skin crawl just thinking about it. I want it gone. I don't care how it's done. I just want it out of my life forever.”

“What does it look like? Are there claws? Tentacles? Can it speak?” Aiden asked, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

“Don't rightly know,” Carl replied, looking sheepish. “Never got a close enough look, myself. Just wanted to get away from it.”

“The thing is,” Lambert cut in, “Kind of hard to set a price when we don't know what exactly we're after or what the hell we're supposed to do with it when we find it. And witchers don't work for free.”

“I'm sure we can work something out,” Aiden said in a reasonable tone.

Lambert pushed the vodka across the table at him and stood. “You settle the details, then. I'm gonna go take a piss.”

The cool night air felt good against his alcohol-numbed skin as he pissed against the back wall of the inn. Lambert rested his forehead on the rough stone, breathing a sigh of relief. It felt good to just walk away and let Aiden do the talking. He'd never liked haggling much anyway.

By the time he returned, Carl was already gone. “So, we got a job?” Lambert said, sliding onto the bench beside Aiden.

“We do indeed.” Aiden turned and smiled at him. The way his piercing golden eyes met Lambert's causing an immediate warmth to pool in Lambert's abdomen.

Lambert grinned back in anticipation. “What do you say we go enjoy the rest of our night off somewhere more private?”

The response was immediate, Aiden's low voice in Lambert's ear sending shivers down his spine. “You read my mind.”

~~~~~~

Lambert was tempted—hell, more than tempted—to rush things, to tear Aiden out of his clothes and pin him to the bed as he thrust into him, but he didn't.

Instead, he took things slowly, savoring the taste of Aiden on his lips. The feel of Aiden’s tongue in his mouth. The hint of vodka on his breath. The warmth of his skin. That familiar juniper scent of him, still unmistakably there even after a day in the saddle.

They ended up on the bed, shed clothing and weapons forming a trail across the floor of their rented room. By the time the back of Lambert’s knees hit the mattress and he fell onto the bed with Aiden on top of him, both were down to nothing but their trousers.

Lambert tangled his fingers in Aiden's chestnut curls, dragging him into a deep, passionate kiss. The solid weight of Aiden on top of him was wonderful. The warmth of him, the delicious pressure of Aiden’s hip against Lambert’s cock, the way his muscular arms almost formed a cage around Lambert as Aiden propped himself up on his elbows.

He dragged his lips down Aiden’s neck, pausing to enjoy the shocked way Aiden inhaled when Lambert sank his teeth into the scarred flesh. Aiden ground his hips against Lambert’s, eliciting a groan of desire from him.

God, was it really possible to want someone this much? The spark between them was like a physical jolt every time Lambert’s eyes met Aiden’s. His body responded to even the most innocent of touches between them in a way he found hard to describe.

Lambert let his hand trace the path of the scars that began on Aiden’s neck down and across his chest. He gripped the other man by the small of his back, using the leverage to bring bring them closer together, holding Aiden’s hips down tightly against his own as he thrust up against him. He growled deep in his throat, staring into Aiden’s eyes as he took in the minutiae of the expression on the other man’s face. How vulnerable he looked like this. How the flush on his face extended down his neck, the way his lips parted as he gasped softly, how his fingers dug into the mattress on either side of Lambert’s head. Lambert wanted to eat him alive.

“I want you,” he said into Aiden’s ear, punctuating his words with a roll of his hips and a hard tug on his hair.

“Fuck,” Aiden gasped, his breath warm against Lambert’s skin. He shifted to the side, leaving just enough room between them to slip his hand into Lambert’s trousers and wrap it around his cock. Lambert arched up into his touch, trying desperately to get closer to Aiden, to get more of Aiden’s skin against his own.

He tried ineffectually to shove his trousers down to give Aiden more access, but only succeeded in getting them stuck halfway down his hips. Aiden chuckled at his struggle, eventually relenting and pulling away to help get them the rest of the way off.

Reason numbed by alcohol and raw desire, Lambert actually _whined_ when Aiden took his hand away, feeling the loss like a physical touch. His face flushed hot as he realized that sound had come from _him_. Since when had he been so desperate? Fuck, he was in way over his head.

Aiden pulled his own trousers off, exposing the full length of his own neglected cock. Lambert sat up and pulled himself toward the edge of the bed, wrapping his arms around Aiden’s waist and burying his face in Aiden’s stomach, inhaling the faint scent of him as he dragged his lips across Aiden’s skin, following the soft trail of hair that led down his abdomen until he reached the base of his cock.

Aiden’s skin burned hot against Lambert’s cheek. Lambert dipped his head down and pressed a kiss to the base of Aiden’s cock before flattening his tongue and licking his way up to the tip, savoring the salty taste of him, dipping his head down again and taking Aiden into his mouth. The other man’s hand tangled in his hair as Lambert began to move his head up and down, massaging Aiden’s cock with his tongue, breathing steadily through his nose.

Aiden’s legs trembled with the effort of holding still. Lambert pulled back, grinning up at him, and found himself being shoved violently backward, his legs trapped under Aiden’s, his hips pinned under Aiden’s strong hands.

There was no teasing, no buildup, just Aiden’s warm mouth on his cock. Aiden’s tongue swirling around the tip of him, Aiden’s strong hand wrapped around the base, pumping along with the rhythm he’d set. It was all Lambert could do not to buck off the mattress.

His face was hot, his breath ragged as Aiden methodically took him apart. They’d been together for long enough that Aiden knew all the spots to hit, all the ways he could use his tongue to make Lambert swear and see stars. The best ways to tease him, to make him come undone.

That routine was interrupted by a firm hand on his ass, squeezing harder than was necessary. Aiden looked up at Lambert through his eyelashes, the sudden eye contact between the two of them spurring a jolt that ran through Lambert all the way down his spine to the tip of his cock. God, he was sexy like this—submissive and in control at the same time, an unstoppable force of sweat and steel and pale skin pressed against Lambert’s hip.

Aiden pulled off and kissed his way up Lambert’s neck, sucking hard enough to leave what would certainly be obvious bruises in the morning. “Do you want…?” He breathed in Lambert’s ear, squeezing his ass again to indicate what he meant. His voice was honey, dark and smooth.

“Fuck,” Lambert managed, trying to catch his breath. “Yes. God, yes.”

Aiden vanished for a moment, returning with a familiar bottle of oil. He coated his fingers and settled between Lambert’s legs, gently nudging them apart. “Ready?” 

Lambert responded by pulling him down into a ravenous kiss, pushing his tongue into Aiden’s mouth, biting his bottom lip, tangling his fingers in Aiden’s hair. Aiden was gentle as his finger circled Lambert’s entrance, pushing inside slowly as Lambert reached down to stroke his own cock.

It had been a while since he’d done this. God, why had he gone so long without doing this? Aiden’s fingers were warm and gentle as they carefully worked him open. The feeling of Aiden inside him was intimate even in this minor way, in a way Lambert hadn’t experienced before. In a way that made him want more.

It wasn’t enough. “Just,” he managed to gasp out. “Fuck me. Please. Fuck—”

Aiden’s fingers were gone—he knelt between Lambert’s legs, retrieving the bottle of oil and this time using a couple of drops to coat his cock. Lambert grinned as Aiden rocked his hips back, lining up his cock with Lambert’s body. He raised an eyebrow as his flesh met Lambert’s, his unspoken question answered unequivocally when Lambert rolled his hips against Aiden.

“Shit,” Lambert rasped as Aiden slowly pushed inside him, pausing once he was fully sheathed. “F—”

Aiden bent down to kiss Lambert hungrily, swirling his tongue over Lambert’s as he began to move, cupping Lambert’s face with one hand.

Lambert hadn’t expected it to feel this way. He hadn’t expected to feel so _vulnerable_ , so utterly naked and visible to Aiden’s piercing eyes. And yet, he didn’t care. He didn’t want to run. He didn’t want to push Aiden away. He wanted him closer, deeper. He wanted to melt into Aiden’s body until they were one person, gasping and flushed, four golden eyes and two hearts.

Aiden thrust into him, his movements gathering momentum slowly at first and then picking up speed. With every stroke of his cock, he grazed something inside Lambert that sent a jolt through Lambert’s entire body. Lambert moaned into the empty air between them, throwing his head back and focusing on the fullness of Aiden inside him. He reached down and took his own cock in hand, pumping in time with Aiden’s thrusts, rolling his hips along with Aiden’s.

“God, you feel amazing,” Aiden groaned, gripping Lambert’s thighs hard and using the leverage to pull him closer. He canted his hips, pushing deeper into Lambert with every thrust.

“Oh, f—” Lambert’s muscles were so tense it felt like they were going to snap. Aiden rolled his hips and hit a spot deep inside of Lambert that made his vision swim. “Harder,” he growled, stroking his cock faster as Aiden sped up, vaguely aware that Aiden’s thrusts were starting to lose their rhythm—

The world dissolved, and he was carried away on the tide of his orgasm, the waves made much stronger by the sensation of Aiden still inside him, Lambert’s muscles squeezing his cock rhythmically as aftershocks rocked his body.

When he came back to himself Aiden was collapsed on top of him, his breathing coarse and ragged in Lambert’s ear. A bead of sweat ran down Lambert’s forehead—he wasn’t honestly sure whose it was. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, his hand tracing lazy circles on Aiden’s back as he tried to catch his breath.

Lambert neither knew nor cared what the morning would bring. In that moment, for the first time in a long time, he was happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> November is over and NaNoWriMo was a success! I've finished writing all but the last chapter and am in the process of editing now. You can expect regular updates at least every other Monday from this point forward.
> 
> It's good to be back and posting again! I hope that you enjoyed the new chapter and would love to hear what you thought. 💙


	15. Broken Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by the lovely [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion), as always!

The grey, misty dawn found the witchers by the wharf. The scent of the nearby fish market, amplified tenfold by his mutations, made Lambert’s stomach churn. He cursed as he struggled to untie the ropes that moored the small sailboat to the dock. His hangover squeezed his head like a vise, making his fingers clumsy.

“Fucking finally,” he spat as the knot finally came undone and the ropes fell away. He gathered them up and tossed them haphazardly to the floor of the boat before moving to sit at the tiller.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Aiden said warily, eyeing the open expanse of ocean past the breakwaters of the harbor.

Lambert rolled his eyes. “Relax. I built a boat with my bare hands. I know how to sail.”

“If you say so,” Aiden said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“What’s wrong?” Lambert asked, smirking. “Cat scared of a little water?”

“Fuck you,” Aiden retorted. “I like my feet on solid ground. Not gonna apologize for that.”

“Alright, alright, calm down,” Lambert said, casting off. The wind caught the sail immediately, making the canvas billow outward as the boat began to move. Lambert couldn’t help but grin. The salt wind blowing through his hair felt wonderful after the events of the previous night.

“So, what do you reckon we’re looking for?” Aiden asked as they sailed past the breakwaters and out onto the open ocean.

Lambert shrugged. “Could be anything, really. Scaled, humanoid...probably not a siren or an ekhidna, I’m sure he’s seen one of those before. Maybe a drowned dead?”

“It’d have to be a pretty persistent one,” Aiden mused. “The stalking behavior Carl described sounded intelligent to me.”

“True. Drowners are dumb as shit.” Lambert turned the tiller slightly.

Aiden snorted. “Hmm...Maybe a vodyanoi?”

“Sounds like a good bet to me. I’m definitely not jumping into this ocean to find out, though. Water’s cold as ice.”

“Well, if what Carl told us was true, it should come to us. If it follows his boat, it’ll find us eventually.”

Lambert let the sail down, leaving the boat drifting lazily on the waves. “All we gotta do is wait, then.” He pulled a flask from his pocket and took a swig before offering it to Aiden.

“What’s in that?” Aiden asked, eyeing it warily. “Please tell me it isn’t more of your homemade vodka.”

“I’ll have you know my vodka is the finest in all of Kaer Morhen,” Lambert quipped. “This is Temerian rye, though. Hair of the dog, you know.”

“Pretty sure it wasn’t a dog that bit me,” Aiden said coyly, accepting the flask and taking a draught.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t like it—”

The calm waters of the sea suddenly roiled to the side of the boat. Lambert’s hand flew to his silver sword, ready to strike at whatever emerged.

A dark shape broke the surface of the water. It didn’t look like any vodyanoi Lambert had ever seen. It was humanoid, with curves that suggested a female form. Long, algae-green strands of something that looked like seaweed hung from its head in place of hair. Its eyes were large and vacant—a deep shade of glossy black in their entirety, with no discernible iris or pupils. Patchy scales were clustered on its skin with no apparent rhyme or reason to their placement. Its flesh was the mottled purple of a corpse in places, the deep shifting green of murky pond water in others. It grasped the side of the boat with fingers that were unnaturally long, terminating in twisted claws.

“You aren’t Carl,” she said, pulling back water-bloated lips to reveal a mouth full of tiny-razor sharp teeth and a long, forked tongue like a lizard’s. Its voice was distorted, but still unmistakably female.

“And you certainly aren’t a drowner,” Aiden said with curiosity, sheathing his sword. He stood and approached the creature slowly, kneeling down in front of it and examining it. Lambert kept his own blade out and at the ready. He wasn’t so easily trusting. As far as he was concerned, this thing could and was very well about to eviscerate the two of them and eat their entrails for breakfast.

The creature hissed as Aiden leaned in to peer at her face. His medallion was vibrating so hard that Lambert could practically hear it. Lambert’s own twitched on its chain, reacting more strongly as the creature came closer.

“You weren’t always like this, were you?” Aiden said sadly, reaching out to touch her cheek.

She hissed, but did not attack. “I was once like you,” she replied, her razor teeth clicking against each other unpleasantly with every syllable. “I can hardly remember it now. What it felt like to walk the land. To breathe the air. It matters not.” She gestured with a clawed hand at her own hideous skin. “I am of the sea, now.”

“You were cursed, weren’t you?”

“I do not know.” She pushed her slimy, dripping hair away from her face. “One day I awoke, and I was a monster.”

“This is powerful fucking magic,” Lambert muttered to Aiden. “This might not be a curse we can break.”

“Break?” The creature peered at Lambert through black, lidless eyes. “You mean—you could free me?”

“I don’t know.” He slid his sword back into its sheath. If the creature wanted to hurt them, it would have tried by now. “Look, curses are complicated. _Really_ fucking complicated. And we have no idea who—or what—did this in the first place.”

She bared her teeth, obviously displeased.

“Look,” Lambert said. “There’s a contract out on you. Did you know that?”

She shook her head, cursing in a harsh, guttural language Lambert didn’t understand. “Who?”

“Man named Carl. You know him? Paid us to get rid of you. Said he didn’t care how.”

She cursed again, but this time tears welled up in her blank eyes. “To get rid of me?”

Lambert crossed his arms. “What’s your deal with him, anyhow? He says you’ve been stalking him. He’s scared shitless.”

“I am—” she broke off, her lopsided mouth twisting in displeasure. “Was. I was his beloved.”

Aiden extended a comforting hand, placing it over hers where her nails dug into the rough wood planking of the side of the boat. “Tell me your name.”

“Aurelia. My name is Aurelia.” One fat tear trembled and then spilled over, running down the side of her flattened nose.

“Tell us what happened,” Aiden said, his voice gentle and soothing. “We want to help.”

“I...I do not know.” Her voice was strained, as if speaking for this long was causing her great pain. “One morning, not long after the solstice, I woke up this way. I was still in bed next to Carl—he was still asleep. I thank the gods he never had to see me this way.” She paused, drawing a deep, raspy breath.

“When I looked upon myself, and saw what I had become, I knew I could not stay. I cannot live outside the water for long. The air suffocates me.” She tilted her head back, indicating the gills on either side of her slender neck. “I was afraid of what might happen to me. Not even my own family would recognize me this way. Not even my beloved. They would only see a monster. And you, more than most, should know what happens to monsters here.” She sighed despondently.

“I dragged myself to the water. Our house wasn’t far from the docks. I managed to slip into the sea without being spotted by the guards. I told myself that I would swim far, far away from home. To somewhere humans hadn’t touched. Somewhere no one would ever have to look at me again.”

“But you didn’t,” Lambert said.

“No. I didn’t.” Aurelia grimaced, baring her teeth. “I stayed away for a time, but…”

“You missed him.” Aiden said gently.

She nodded. “I still couldn’t bring myself to show him what I’d become. But I’d catch little glimpses of him. Watch his life from a distance. It made things a little bit easier.”

“Hmm.” Aiden pondered for a moment. “Lambert’s right—I don’t know if we’d be able to lift this curse. It would be risky even if we knew who cast it and what words they used. But we might be able to help you another way.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow.

“What if we talked to Carl for you? Helped explain what happened?” Aiden proposed. “I’d wager he misses you as much as you miss him. That would buy us time to try to look for other solutions.”

“I don’t know…” Aurelia looked away sadly. “Could any man truly love a beast like me? I am no longer the woman he once wished to marry. I don’t think I could bear it if he never wanted to see me again.”

“Isn’t it better to find out than to spend the rest of your life wondering what might have happened if you’d said yes?” Aiden’s face was suddenly lined with sorrow. “I’ve lived longer than most. I have enough regret to fill a hundred lifetimes. Trust me when I say it’s better to know.”

Aurelia hesitated, pushing her dripping hair back from her grotesque face again as she thought. “Alright,” she said after several minutes of silence. “I will let him see me. Call my name by the sea at dusk and I will be there.” She let go of the side of the boat, leaving behind a thin film of slime where she’d touched the wood. “I hope you’re right,” she said before sinking beneath the waves.

As she swam away, Lambert caught the smallest glimpse of a glistening tail.

~~~~~~

“It’s _what_?” Carl said incredulously, looking at the Lambert like he’d sprouted a second head.

Lambert rubbed his forehead in frustration. “Your fiance, dumbass. Aurelia. Remember her? Not a monster. Aurelia.”

“I don’t…” Carl trailed off. “Aurelia is dead. The beast took her. It killed her. It’s probably disguised itself—it’s using her to torment me!” His face twisted in anger.

“I know the damn difference between a monster and a cursed human. This is a curse,” Lambert said, folding his arms. “Don’t believe me? Go see for yourself.”

“I’m not certain I want to.” Carl emptied his mug of ale, setting it down roughly on the table in front of him and putting his head in his hands. “Ye gods, who could have done such a thing?”

Lambert sighed. “I don’t know and I don’t have to know. You paid us to get rid of her. Thought you might want all the details before we went through with that.”

Carl sat up suddenly. “If it’s a curse—it can be reversed?”

“I’m not sure,” Aiden said, frowning in dismay. “The effects could possibly be lessened, or perhaps even transferred onto someone else. But it’s extremely risky. We don’t know what kind of magic is involved here. There’s a good chance she’ll be stuck like this for the rest of her life.”

“The rest of her life…” Carl looked as if the world had crumbled around him. “I don’t...how could we even…?”

“Plenty of others have made do,” Lambert said curtly. “Yeah, this isn’t an ideal situation. But you say you love her. Either that’s true, and you try to make it work, or it isn’t—in which case, you can tell her to go away yourself as far as I’m concerned. I doubt she’ll be back.”

Carl stared at the crude blue and yellow flowers painted on the wall of the tavern, his eyes blank and expression grave.

Lambert sighed again. “Come on, Aiden, let’s go. This is a waste of our time.” He stood, pushing his bench back from the table, and made for the door.

“Wait,” Carl said, his expression pained. “There’s a place—a small cove on the water, a few minutes’ ride to the west of the city. Aurelia and I used to meet there sometimes. I’ll be there at sunset.”

Lambert nodded once, and walked away.

~~~~~~

As promised, the witchers made their way to the cove when the sun began to slip below the horizon. The rain had abated, if only for the moment. The spot Carl had chosen was secluded, shielded from view by a copse of tall pines. The thin strip of beach was embedded with boulders, their shapes worn smooth by the beat of the waves. At high tide, the entire area would have been underwater.

Carl had yet to arrive. Lambert leaned back against one of the boulders, crossing his arms and making himself comfortable. Aiden knelt nearby, placing his swords on the ground in front of him and closing his eyes to meditate.

The fiery orange glow of the sunset had given over to the lavender-grey haze of dusk before the sound of distant approaching footsteps jolted Lambert out of his thoughts. Aiden stood, slinging his swordbelts over his shoulder, as Carl emerged from the tree line. The man’s face was haggard, and he walked with the slight stumble of someone who’d spent the better part of the day drinking and had only just begun to sober up.

“You sure he’s up to this?” Lambert muttered to Aiden, eyeing Carl disapprovingly. “He’s a mess.”

“He’ll have to be,” Aiden replied.

Carl kept walking until his boots were kissed by the gentle waves that rolled in from the sea, gazing out at the sunset with somber eyes. “Right here,” he said morosely. “This is the place I asked her to be my wife.” He turned to face the witchers. “What do I do?”

“She said to speak her name by the sea at dusk. Call for her.”

Lambert remained leaning against the boulder, watching the proceedings warily. He’d never been much of an optimist. Experience had taught him that humans were vain, selfish creatures. He had a hard time believing that this contract was going to have the fairy-tale ending Aiden seemed to want.

Carl turned back to the sea just as a larger swell broke. The tide was coming in—the water rushed over his boots, rushing up to his knees before beginning to recede. He took a deep, shaking breath, and whispered a single word to the waves. “Aurelia.”

A short ways out into the water, the surface of the sea began to ripple. A trail of turbulent water moved toward the shore, stopping a few feet from where Carl stood. In the light of the setting sun, a dark shape broke its surface. A familiar grey-and-green mottled face, hair like knotted seaweed, a slender neck slashed on either side with gills. Claws like knives. A flat nose with slitted nostrils. Lidless black eyes like pools of oil.

“Carl,” she breathed, the word spoken with more reverence than a prayer. “You came.”

Carl squinted out at the water, his eyes trying to make sense of the shape silhouetted by the dying light. “Aurelia. I...I thought you were dead.”

“I might as well be,” Aurelia replied forlornly, her words made harsh by the shape of her teeth. “My life was stolen from me the moment I became this way. I am a wretch. A monster. Nothing more.”

Carl’s hands were clenched into fists. His face twisted with anger and sadness at her words. “I buried you!” he spat through clenched teeth. “There’s a stone in the family plot with your name on it. I buried a piece of myself in that hole with the ring I gave you.” His voice broke. “What would you have me say? What would you have me do?” His words rose steadily in pitch as angry tears spilled over. “Why? Why have you returned to torment me this way?”

“I couldn’t bear to be apart from you,” Aurelia whispered in a broken voice.

“And yet, you still cling to the shadows!” Carl shouted. “Even now, you hide from the light. Show yourself!”

Slowly, hesitantly, Aurelia came closer to shore, until she was face to face with Carl. “Look upon me and weep,” she said quietly, reaching out and caressing his cheek with one skeletal hand. “For this is what I have become.”

Carl blinked rapidly, shock turning to horror and then disgust as he took in her grotesque appearance. Her soulless eyes. Her corpse-like skin. He recoiled from her touch, stumbling backward through the shallow water.

“No,” he breathed. “No!” he repeated, more firmly. “This is some foul trick, some monster sent up from the depths of hell itself to toy with me.” He rounded on the witchers. “ _You—_ ” he shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at Aiden. “You lied to me. The Aurelia I knew is long gone.”

Carl dug clumsily in his pockets and pulled out a small drawstring pouch. He threw it in the witchers’ direction—it landed on the sand with a soft clink. “Take your pay, you bastards. Make this _thing_ disappear, and then get the hell out of Pont Vanis. I never want to see you again. Either of you.” He spat into the sand and turned on his heel, vanishing into the trees.

Lambert bent down and collected the pouch from the ground, pocketing it. Aiden made for the sea, wading into the soft waves until he was in front of Aurelia. He knelt down in the water, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t think it would go that way.”

Aurelia looked up at him, her hollow eyes running over with tears. “He was right, you know,” she said brokenly. “All that I was is gone.”

“We can keep trying. We can look for a way to lift the curse. A sorceress might—”

“No.” She pushed his hand from her shoulder and stared down into the inky water. “It matters not.” Her shoulders heaved with a muffled sob as tears dipped steadily from her face into the ocean.

“Witcher, I have a request of you,” she said finally.

“Name it.” Aiden’s face was lined with sorrow.

She looked directly into his eyes, her expression pleading. “Mercy,” she begged. “Mercy. Please put an end to this nightmare.”

Aiden shook his head. “That’s not something I can do.”

“I can,” Lambert said, finally moving from his position leaning against the boulder.

Aiden looked at him incredulously. “It isn’t right.”

“It’s what she wants,” Lambert shot back. “She has a right to choose. And in her position, I’d probably want the same thing.” He stepped carefully into the water, picking his way over the slimy rocks hidden beneath its surface.

“I can’t be a part of this.” Aiden stood, water running from the grooved leather of his armor, and walked silently off into the treeline.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Lambert said after a moment. “I didn’t want things to turn out this way. I would have been happy to be proven wrong.”

Tears poured silently from Aurelia’s eyes. “Every heartbeat, every breath, every second of existing is pain for a creature like me, witcher. It was foolish of me to think otherwise.” She wiped her eyes and straightened up. “I am ready. Make it fast.”

Lambert’s silver sword rang as he drew it from its sheath.

~~~~~~

Few words were exchanged between the witchers through the process of building a pyre; of watching sparks spiral upward toward the sliver moon and sputter out, choked by the night air; of trudging back to the city walls and making their way through the winding streets back to the inn that was their temporary home. They didn’t need to speak, as they sat opposite each other at a rough-hewn table, drinking harsh vodka that did nothing to chase away the numbness in their hearts.

Silence hung grey and heavy between them. It permeated the air in the tavern when they both finally arose and headed upstairs to get some sleep. It smothered Lambert like a thick fog as he stared at the ceiling, unable to close his eyes. It coiled itself around Aiden, who couldn’t bring himself to even meet Lambert’s eyes in the near-darkness.

Lambert didn’t know how, or when, but eventually he succumbed to an uneasy sleep.

~~~~~~~

Lambert’s nightmares were insidious. They seeped through the cracks of perfectly normal dreams, coating them in oil and tar until they were unrecognizably distorted.

He sat in his boat on the lake at Kaer Morhen, throwing bombs into the water. One exploded, and the lake fell away below him, leaving him adrift on a sea of blackness. 

Whispers in the darkness around him. He reached for his sword, but when he pulled it from its sheath it was broken. He whirled around, trying to find the source of the noise, but something lurked in the shadows. It moved too fast for him to see, even with his witcher senses.

Scratching at the side of his boat. He leaned over the edge, peering into the oily pool of nothingness that surrounded him.

He was met with his own reflection. Suddenly, he found himself unable to breathe—he felt like there was a rising tide of fluid in his chest, his lungs couldn’t move air—he scrabbled at his throat and his reflection did the same.

Drops of dark fluid fell into the water below him, causing his reflection to ripple. His hands dropped from his throat to his chest, mirrored in the pitch beneath. They met with cold, unyielding steel, made slick with blood. He reeled back, looking wildy down at the wound. The other half of his broken sword was embedded in his chest, piercing his heart.

From somewhere in the darkness surrounding him came the unmistakable sound of a crossbow winding up. A creak and a snap, and a steel bolt slammed into his eye. The dream dissolved around him as pain exploded through his skull. He staggered back and fell over the railing of his boat, tumbling down, down into a void of nothingness that swallowed him like a gaping maw.

He awoke in his bed, gasping for air and clutching at his chest. The sheets around him were soaked in cold sweat. “Fuck,” he managed to wheeze out, sitting up and burying his face in his hands. “Fuck,” he breathed again, shaking. “God damnit.”

Aiden was still asleep beside him, his face twisted by lines of worry. He was probably fighting his own demons in some way or another. Lambert briefly considered waking him but thought better of it.

Lambert swung his legs out of bed and started pulling on his clothes. He needed a fucking drink. He didn’t care how early in the morning it was. He slipped out of the room and made his way downstairs, sliding a few crowns across the bar to the innkeep’s bleary-eyed son.

“Beer,” he said flatly. “The stronger, the better.” The boy nodded and scurried off to fetch his drink.

Something in Lambert’s pocket pressed uncomfortably against his leg as he sat. He reached in and pulled own the pouch Carl had thrown at them the previous evening, which was supposed to contain their pay for the contract. Which they’d fulfilled to the letter, if not in the way that Carl had wanted.

The leather purse didn’t feel like it contained coin. The object inside was hard and bent into an irregular shape, with a sharp end. Lambert opened the pouch and dumped its contents out onto the bar. An iron fishhook the size of his hand came tumbling out with a clang.

Lambert stared at it for a moment. There was no way Aiden would have agreed to this as payment. Which could have only meant that he’d—

Rage welled up, dark and bitter, and threatened to swallow his heart. He ground his teeth and stared at the fishhook murderously, unable to move. He thought of Aiden, asleep in the bed upstairs, and anger threatened to choke him. He made a fist against the oiled wood of the bar and waited.

~~~~~~

Dawn didn’t break that morning so much as the sky became a lighter shade of grey. The clouds were too thick for the sun to shine through. By the time Lambert heard Aiden’s soft, almost-silent footsteps descending from their room upstairs, his fury had metamorphosed into a cold ball of anger that sat in his stomach like a weight of poison lead. He sat at the bar, shoulders tense, staring straight ahead.

Aiden dropped into the seat beside him. “Morning—” he broke off, seeing the expression on Lambert’s face. “What’s wrong?”

Lambert refused to look at him. He picked up the fishhook and dropped it in front of Aiden. It landed with a clang that smacked of finality.

Aiden stared at it for a moment, mouth opening and closing a few times as he tried to form a solid explanation. “Lambert,” he finally began.

“No.” Lambert pushed his chair back and stood.

“Lambert,” Aiden appealed, “I know you’re angry, but—”

“No!” Lambert shouted. “I’m done.”

“Done?” Aiden said incredulously. “What do you mean, done? Where are you going?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Lambert strode for the door. “Far away from here.”

Aiden got up and moved to block his path. “You’re being unreasonable about this, let me explain—”

“I don’t owe you shit!” Lambert wheeled around, digging in his pocket for the stone he’d accepted as payment for saving the fisherman all those weeks ago. It was worthless, really, but for some reason he’d never bothered to get rid of it. He threw it at Aiden—it bounced off the dark metal plating of his armor and clattered to the floor. “Remember this?”

Aiden looked back at him blankly.

"You know damn well how I feel about this shit and you did it anyway. I don't want your excuses. I don't need an explanation. I'm done. I'm gone. Don't follow me."

Lambert pushed past Aiden roughly, storming out the door and making his way around the side of the inn to the stable in the alley. Fat raindrops beat down on him like the fists of a vengeful god as he saddled his horse, focusing more on getting it done quickly than correctly. He stepped up into the stirrup and swung his leg over to mount, pulling the reins to turn.

Aiden had followed him anyway and was standing in his path, already soaked through to the skin by the driving rain. His curls were matted down to his skull, and water ran down his face in rivulets. " _Lambert_ ," he said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "I never meant—"

"Get out of the way," Lambert growled. "Or I'll move you myself." He made a fist with his left hand, ready to throw out the sign of Aard if he had to.

The fight went out of Aiden. His head fell, eyes hidden from view as he tugged his hood up to hide his face. As Lambert rode past, he couldn't tell if the water that dripped steadily from the tip of Aiden's nose was rain or tears.

In the end, it didn't matter. He urged his horse through the city streets, riding faster than was safe or prudent to get away as the walls closed in on him. When he passed the outer wall, he broke into a gallop, leaving everything he'd had far behind him.


	16. The Hunter, Hunted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [bookscorpion!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion)
> 
> Tags updated.

It was several weeks and several hundred miles before Lambert's rage finally began to cool. He'd fought his way halfway to Nilfgaard, leaving a thick trail of necrophage corpses and empty bottles behind him. He spent his coin as quickly as he earned it, squandering his pay on whores and liquor to the extent that he had to scrape a handful of crowns together when a slyzard bite through his gambeson forced him to pay a visit to an armorer.

Aiden's face haunted his dreams at night. Sometimes in the shadows of other dreams, sometimes at the forefront—always wearing the same stricken expression he'd had the last time Lambert had laid eyes on him. Some nights, his face was streaked with tears. Others, it was blood. One night, Lambert dreamt he saw Aiden overwhelmed by a pack of ghouls, the whirling dance of his sword insufficient to push back their numbers. They swarmed over him, teeth and claws ripping into his flesh until nothing was left but a few scraps of bloody blue fabric on the ground.

Distance had done nothing to help him outrun his thoughts. Alcohol did nothing to dull his dreams. He went without sleep as much as possible, frightened by what he might see if he closed his eyes.

Lambert wasn't sorry. Not one bit. He'd meant every fucking word he'd said in that tavern. He'd wanted to hurt Aiden. To make him feel even a fraction of the betrayal that Lambert had felt when he'd seen that fishhook. And maybe he'd accomplished that, who knew? But it hadn't brought him even the tiniest shred of comfort. His own words echoed like bitter poison in his ears.

He told himself that he was fine. He was a lone wolf. He'd been a lone wolf for decades. He'd gotten used to walking the Path by himself. It shouldn't have been hard to go back to doing it again.

But it was. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. It felt like a piece of him was missing, somehow. The world was dull, muted, as if everything he touched was felt through half-numbed hands. He caught himself looking over his shoulder for Aiden's reassuring presence all the time. Half-formed words died on his lips as he was met with empty air. Something pinched and twisted in his chest every time it happened. Just as he would start to put Aiden out of his mind, to forget, even for a moment—it would happen again, and the wounds were rent open anew.

And as such things do, the pain finally broke him. As he sat by the fire where he'd made camp near some miserable village in the south of Lyria, swilling the last of his homemade vodka and staring morosely at the spot beside him where Aiden would have sat, something inside him snapped.

“Son of a whore,” he muttered under his breath. “I've got to fucking find him.”

~~~~~~

As it turned out, locating a single witcher in the vastness of the continent was easier said than done. Lambert followed the main roads through the countryside, picking up small contracts here and there to make enough coin to get by. In every major city he passed through, he searched for Aiden.

He knew the type of inns and taverns that Aiden liked to frequent. Places that were out of the way, places that were just grimy enough to be passed over by the majority of people. Places where he could avoid attracting attention. Where he could slip unnoticed through the crowd, dodging the resentment and disdain that was reserved for those of their kind.

Lambert scoured those dark corners, but found only cobwebs and bitter ale. When he exhausted his options in Lyria, he headed north.

He passed through Vizima, more because it was far more effort to avoid it than because he wanted to see the capital again. He hated what the city had become—few people walked the streets these days, the populace having been decimated by the Catriona, the Nilfgaardian advance, and the slaughter of the nonhumans during the pogrom that had occurred a few years prior. Everywhere he went, he drew suspicious glances.

Lambert asked about Aiden at a tavern in the Trade Quarter he'd used to frequent before things had gone sour. Its proprietor could tell him nothing. The man wouldn't even meet his eyes anymore, though they'd once been friendly. Lambert paid for his drink and left without another word. He didn't want to sleep inside the city walls. To do so would be asking for a knife between the ribs, or maybe worse.

He journeyed east, towards Mahakam, picking up a contract in Moën to rid their cemetery of a nightwraith. It wasn't a particularly difficult or interesting fight, as far as wraiths went. He was almost bored as he sidestepped the sweep of its claws, baiting it into the protective circle of his Yrden so he could sink his silver sword into its desiccated flesh. He found an opening and plunged his blade into the space where its heart would have been, and it dissolved into ashes as a mournful wail echoed off the tombstones. Lambert sheathed his sword, not having broken a sweat. He gathered up what he could and brought the remains back to the ealdorman's hut to collect his pay. 

“By the way,” he said as he pocketed the pittance the village had scraped together to pay him for his troubles, “I'm looking for someone. A witcher—brown hair, blue armor, scar on his neck.” Lambert drew his finger across his own skin, tracing the path of Aiden's scars. “Seen anyone like that?”

He was taken aback when the ealdorman nodded. “Aye,” he said. “He passed through here a week or so past. Didn't pick up any contracts, just ate at the inn and kept riding. He was acting a might shifty. Seemed like he was running from something.” He spat into the dirt.

“Which way was he headed?” Lambert asked, hating the note of desperation that was evident in his voice.

“East, down the main road.” The other man nodded in the direction of the path. “Wouldn't wager on catching up with him, though. Way he was riding, his horse'll probably be dead in two days time.”

“Thanks,” Lambert said distractedly, staring off in the direction the man had indicated. He made his way back to his horse, his plans to buy a hot meal and a passable bed forgotten.

East.

Ellander.

That was the only place he could be headed. And it made sense—the city had been a port of call for both of them for years. It was where they'd met, after all. Perhaps Aiden was searching for him, too.

His heart twisted in an uncomfortable way. He mounted his horse, spurring it hard with his heels and urging it to a gallop.

~~~~~~

The road flew by underneath Lambert as he urged his horse onward, desperate to reach Ellander by sundown. The sound of bells tolling at the Temple of Melitele echoed softly in the distance long before the city walls rose up before him. The setting sun felt like an hourglass Lambert was racing to beat. He didn't know what would happen if he failed, but a sense of impending doom clung tight to the inside of his chest like tar.

He didn't break speed when he reached the gates, his horse's hooves thundering down on the cobblestones as he tore through the streets. There was practically no one in the main square, save a few hooded figures that kept to the outer edges, their shapes obscured by the shadows cast by the houses and shops lining it. Lambert knew instinctively that none of them were Aiden.

The notice board was practically barren. Lambert tied his horse to it, not caring if the guards came along and took it. He could find it later if he had to. He didn't care about the coin. He didn't care about the indignant yelp of the fussily-dressed man he shoved out of his way as he took off at a run into the depths of the city. He had one goal. _Find Aiden._

His feet knew the way to the tavern where they'd met. He burst in, eyes scanning the crowd inside for a familiar tuft of chestnut hair. A familiar flash of blue.

Nothing.

“Oi! You're banned!” An angry voice growled from behind the bar, and the innkeep emerged, rolling up his sleeves. “Get the hell out. I don't want your kind here. You're nothing but trouble.”

“I'm not staying. I just need—”

“Out!” The innkeep thundered, pointing at the door.

Lambert swore under his breath and drew the sign of Axii. He didn't bother trying to be discreet. “I'm looking for my friend. The one who was with me before. Have you seen him?”

The man staggered as the hex hit him full-force. “...Aye,” he mumbled, looking around at the tavern like he'd never set foot in it before. “I seen him.”

“When? Where did he go?”

“A few hours past. I kicked him out. He went that way, or thereabouts,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Think I saw a few men following after him.”

_“Shit,”_ Lambert hissed, turning and running for the door.

The sun slipped below the horizon as he sprinted away from the inn, boots skidding on wet cobblestones. Every turn, every alley, he was met with nothing. The walls loomed over him like angry giants, cold and judgmental.

He rounded a bend in some forgotten corner of the nonhuman district, and froze.

Even from a distance, even crumpled on the ground and motionless, even shrouded by the inky blackness of night, Lambert would know that silhouette anywhere.

Aiden.

Lambert couldn't move. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. His heart beat like a bag of worms in his chest. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the world, the usual ambient sounds of the city drowned out by the ringing in his ears.

Aiden.

Lambert forced himself to move his feet. To approach the lifeless shadow and confirm what he already knew was true. Dread rose up to swallow his heart. Dread at seeing what he already knew he was about to see. Dread at knowing that that last spark of hope that he clung to like a beacon in the darkness was about to be snuffed out forever like a cinder starved of oxygen.

As Lambert inched his way across the cobblestones, it slowly began to register that the slick substance that coated the bottom of his boots wasn't rainwater. It was blood, dark and viscous, pooled in the gaps between the stones and spread out to form a latticework of gore. The sickly sweet scent of it clung to his nose. He remembered the way Aiden's blood had smelled when he was gored by the fiend, all those months ago. He fought the urge to vomit.

His motions felt nightmare-slow as he reached Aiden's form, the other witcher's body looking tiny and broken where it lay on the ground. Lambert knelt numbly on the ground with no regard for the blood that immediately began seeping into the fabric of his trousers.

With shaking hands, he reached out and rolled Aiden over.

Lambert immediately recoiled, spitting out a curse that got caught in his throat somewhere and choked him. Aiden's hand flopped lifelessly to the ground. The hilt of a broken sword clattered out of it.

His gambeson was soaked through with blood, matted with clots around a deep wound directly over his heart. His skin was pale and mottled through with grey and purple.

The eyes were the worst part. One stared blankly outward. The other was entirely destroyed—the dull glint of a crossbow bolt embedded in the center of it. Trails of blood ran from the socket in a grotesque imitation of tears.

“Aiden,” Lambert breathed, reaching out to touch his face. It was cold as ice.

“Fuck,” he choked, his throat closing up as his eyes stung with tears. “Fuck.”

He made a fist, bit his lip until it drew blood. Tried to hold it back. Shook with the force of remaining silent as the weight of reality slammed down on him, staving in his chest like a broken barrel. The world twisted and spun.

His heart was pounding in his ears—he couldn’t breathe—the walls were closing in on him—too late, too late—he had to run—he couldn't move—he couldn't—

Everything he'd left unsaid came tearing out of him at once in a guttural scream that tore his throat and drowned out everything else. He screamed until he was numb. Until he couldn't scream any more. Until his head felt like it would burst with the raw power of it. Until at last he drew breath and could move again.

He had to get out of Ellander.

Fumbling on his hands and knees, he managed to locate the other half of Aiden's broken sword. It was stained with its owner's half-dried blood. Lambert shoved both pieces into the sheath and stood.

With a deep, shaking breath, he bent down and picked up Aiden's body. Lambert carried him through the streets of the sleeping city, unable to do anything more than put one foot in front of the other. Whether the guards didn't notice him or simply didn't care, Lambert made it to the gates unstopped.

Staggering under the weight of his pain, he slipped out into the night.

~~~~~~

Lambert went through the motions of building a pyre like a ghost. He was only vaguely aware of the blisters that formed and burst on his hands as he cut the wood, of the way his own blood smeared across the logs as he stacked them as he’d done far too many times before. Aiden’s body lay on the grass nearby, its presence like a malevolent shadow that threatened to suck Lambert in and devour him whole. He couldn’t look at it. Looking at it only made it more real. He was afraid to see.

He worked to the task, making sure the wood was stacked perfectly. It would burn hot and bright for the entire night. People would be able to see it from miles away.

The spot he’d selected was beautiful in its own way. A hillock, taller than most, hidden away from the noise and bustle of the main road. The wind whispered through the leaves of the oak tree that towered overhead as Lambert placed the final log. The sky was clear above. Lambert thought to himself vaguely that he’d never seen so many stars.

He knelt and picked up Aiden’s body with the tenderness of a mother carrying her child. Tears welled up, hot and bitter, as Lambert realized that this was the last time he’d ever hold him in his arms.

Lambert set Aiden down gently on the pyre, arranging his arms carefully across his chest. In his hands, he placed both halves of the broken sword.

Something crinkled in Aiden’s pocket as Lambert moved his limbs. Hesitantly, he reached in and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, its creamy surface spotted with dark blood that had seeped into it through Aiden’s clothing. He turned it over.

Written on the other side, in familiar curling script, was one word. _Lambert._

Lambert drew a shaking breath, clutching the parchment tightly in his fist as if it might vanish from existence if he released his grip even a bit. Carefully, he tucked it into his pocket. Later. He would read it later.

He closed Aiden’s good eye with a delicate touch and pulled his hood up to cover his face. With a numbness that seemed to drown out all else, Lambert bent and cradled Aiden’s jaw with one hand, pressing one final kiss to his cold lips.

Lambert stood, resolve faltering as he tried to find the right words.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” he finally managed to whisper. “In all of this, you were the only good thing that ever happened to me. And I failed you.” He broke off, voice choked out by thick tendrils of sorrow.

He sucked in air through his teeth, forcing himself to continue. “I failed you, and I’m so fucking sorry. I wasn’t there, and I should have been.” He took a deep, shaking breath, shoulders heaving as the tears forced their way through. “You know I never set much store by fate. It’s done nothing but fuck me since the day I was born. But I know this—” he made a fist, clenching his teeth. “You, Aiden. You were my destiny.”

He hesitated for a moment, and then reached out and unclasped the cat’s head medallion from Aiden’s neck. A reminder. A memento he knew he probably didn’t deserve, but needed all the same. He clenched it in his fist.

“I loved you, Aiden,” he finally managed to say. “I loved you and I never fucking told you. Even when I was pissed as hell, even when I left, even when we fought, I loved you. And I will never forgive myself for letting this happen.” The answering silence seemed to suck the very air out of him. Lambert stood uncertainly at the brink, afraid to move forward because he knew there was no way back.

With his left hand, he formed the sign of Igni and lit the dried grass that was stuffed between the logs of the pyre. The fire caught fast, greedy flames licking at the wood until they found purchase. They leapt higher and higher, devouring all, until Aiden’s body was obscured by a curtain of flame.

Lambert stood there with clenched teeth, tears streaming down his face and dripping silently to the ground. As much as he wanted to turn away, he couldn’t. He had to bear witness. It was the last kind thing he could do for the man who had been his friend, his lover, his confidant. The man who had tried to make him better. To help him become more than the angry, bitter little boy from Aedirn, still mourning the loss of his old life.

Sparks flew upward from the pyre, cinders soaring up toward the stars and slowly dying out in the cold spring air. Lambert took Aiden’s medallion and clasped the chain around his own neck, tucking it under his armor so that it rested next to his heart.

As the flames roared high, Lambert reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter. He unfolded it carefully, frightened of what he was going to find inside.

_Lambert,_ it began.

_There are some things I never told you. Things I should have told you. Things about my past that I should have known would come back to haunt me one day. And now I don’t know if I’ll ever get the chance._

_There are men hunting me. I think it is likely that I am going to die very soon. And it is all my fault._

_I told you once about my brothers. About Caspar, the man who was once my protege, whom I was forced to cut down in cold blood to prevent the murder of an infant girl. I have spent my life trying to atone for those sins._

_The girl he was to kill was the daughter of a duke. When Caspar failed to carry out the contract, his employers resorted to other means of carrying out their designs. They had a curse placed on her—a powerful curse. One that damned her to sleep as if dead for the rest of her life._

_When I learned of this, I felt compelled to help. I approached the duke and entered into a contract to lift the curse. The specifics of it no longer matter—before I could succeed in doing so, an assassin used a loophole in the curse to ensure her death._

_The duke’s enemies were not pleased that I’d meddled in their affairs once again. They placed a contract on me—I believe that the man they hired to carry it out is someone from my past. He is cunning and extremely dangerous. If he manages to find me, I doubt that I will survive the encounter._

_Lambert, I’m sorry. I don’t know what else I can say except that I’m sorry. I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this letter. I wouldn’t blame you if you tossed it straight into the first fire you saw without ever opening it. I would deserve it, after what I did. But I hope against hope that fate will somehow lead you back to me._

_Forgive me, Lambert. For all that I’ve done, for all the times we fought, for the hurt I caused us both. I cannot escape this._

_I am, and always shall be, yours._

_—Aiden._

Tears blurred Lambert’s vision as he read Aiden’s final words. They spilled over and fell softly to the parchment, soaking into the paper and blurring the ink. He read and re-read the letter, grasping desperately for some hidden meaning, some way to reverse the clock. His reaching hands met with empty air.

Lambert watched numbly as the fire burned slowly away to nothing. When morning came, he found a large, flat stone and placed it in the center of the ashes, planting what was left of Aiden’s swords in the ground beside it like strange flowers. He left a single tallow candle on top of the stone.

It was piss-poor as far as witchers’ graves went. Leo’s grave at Kaer Morhen was much grander, and well-cared for. But he wasn’t at Kaer Morhen, and there wasn’t time for that. At the very least, Aiden had had someone who cared about him enough to do this. Lambert had already resigned himself to the notion that when his time came, he’d probably be left to rot in some forgotten swamp for all eternity.

He knelt in the ashes, pressing one final kiss to his fingertips and then placing his hand on the stone.

Then Lambert stood, a new fire charring the inside of his chest. A conflagration of pure fury that burned away all else and left only one thought behind.

Revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so fucking sorry.


	17. In Between Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas 2018 🎁
> 
> Beta, as always, by the lovely [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion/) :)

Lambert rode for days, trying to outpace his demons, before he finally realized that he had no idea where he was going or what he was doing. He was determined to make someone, anyone, pay for Aiden’s death. But he didn’t have the first fucking idea of where to start. It wasn’t like he had witnesses to question. He couldn’t bear to set foot in Ellander, maybe ever again. The city was poison to him now.

He needed help, as much as it pained him to admit it. He needed a sorceress. And he knew exactly where to find one. And so he found himself following the Pontar to the west, toward Novigrad.

He rode hard, stopping only long enough to buy a cold meal here and there to keep himself going. When his horse was close to exhaustion, he traded it for a new one. He didn’t care about the gold. He just wanted to find the bastards before the trail went completely cold. 

Lambert finally allowed himself to begin to relax when he caught sight of the Hanged Man’s Tree. It towered over the sprawling fields surrounding the main road, a grotesque reminder of what happened to those who failed to conform to this new, lawless Temeria.

Relaxing, as it turned out, was a mistake. As he rode by, two hooded figures darted out into the road, blocking his path. One leveled a crossbow at him, aiming between his eyes.

“Don’t move a fuckin’ muscle,” the other growled, approaching Lambert cautiously and beginning to dig through his saddlebags.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Lambert remarked, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Not a smart idea, robbing a witcher. I have bigger fish to fry today, but I’m more than happy to add you to my list.”

“Shut up,” the crossbow wielder spat.

Lambert rolled his eyes. “Fair enough.” He formed the sign of Axii, grinning as the man staggered under the full weight of the hex.

“Shoot him,” Lambert said blandly, nodding at the man rummaging through his saddlebags. 

The first bandit squeezed his finger on the trigger, and his friend fell to the ground with a strangled yelp and a thud. A bolt protruded from the center of his neck. With a frantic expression he scrabbled at his own throat, fingers unable to find purchase on the metal spike. Blood welled up steadily from the hole as his movements grew dissolved into twitching and then finally ceased.

Lambert dismounted his horse, stepping disinterestedly over the body. He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a length of rope. He relieved the surviving bandit of his crossbow and shoved the coiled rope roughly into his chest, making him stumble backward. 

“Do us all a favor and put yourself out of your own misery, alright pal?” He patted the man on the shoulder and walked away, swinging himself back into the saddle and spurring his horse with his heel.

As he rode over the next hill, his sensitive ears picked up on the creak of a rope and a snap.

~~~~~~

When he at last reached the Novigrad city walls, an ominous cloud of black smoke hung was rising over the red roofs of the houses. Lambert left his horse at The Seven Cats, chipping a few crowns in to have it fed and taken care of. It was better to proceed into the city on foot. He'd attract less attention.

The guards eyed him suspiciously as he entered through the Tretogor gate, but did nothing to stop him. Immediately, the noises and smells of the city were an assault on Lambert's senses. People shouting, the stale scent of incense from the small chapels to the Eternal Fire, the clatter of cart wheels on cobblestone, the stench of old chamber pots, the screech of drowners and god knew what else in the sewers below, the bitter smoke of charred meat—

Fuck.

It only got stronger as Lambert made his way toward Hierarch square, the jeers of an angry crowd drowning out more and more of the ambient noise as he drew closer to his destination. The square was packed almost full—Lambert had to push and shove his way through the crush of brightly-dressed townspeople who had gathered to watch the spectacle.

One pyre was burnt almost out, its unfortunate victim no longer recognizable as humanoid. A tall, bearded man in sweeping robes was being shackled to another. A member of the temple guard stood at the forefront, reading what was presumably a list of charges from a scroll. The screams of the crowd drowned out his words so that even Lambert, with his enhanced hearing, couldn't make them out.

Lambert paused in his efforts to push through the crowd, eyeing the doomed man.

A second guard threw a torch onto the pyre, which immediately caught alight. Flames rushed forth to devour the wood stacked at its base, licking the man's robes curiously at first and then hungrily biting in. The man did not scream. He didn't move. His face didn't even twist in anguish.

Instead, he smiled. And as the flames leapt ever higher, two bright shapes burst forth from the pyre. Twin beasts made of fire, with enormous teeth and forked tails. They prowled in a circle around the stake, sparks jumping from their coats. 

The guards jumped back, hands gripping their halberds so tightly that their knuckles turned white, pointlessly trying to protect themselves from the monsters.

Lambert folded his arms and watched with interest, one eyebrow raised. This was a clever bit of alchemy, like nothing he'd ever seen before. 

The man chained to the stake, to his credit, remained silent, staring at those who had condemned him with a smile on his face as the flames rose up to consume him. As they climbed over his head, the beasts began to circle him faster and faster, blurring into a twisted ring of light that encircled the doomed alchemist.

All at once, they shot upward, balls of fire exploding over the square with a loud boom like thunder. The beasts dissolved into glittering sparks, which shifted and rearranged themselves to spell a phrase—

"Radovid sucks flaccid cock."

Lambert snorted to himself as the enraptured silence of the crowd exploded into jeers and hushed whispering. The guards and witch hunters were suddenly out in force, pushing their way into the throng to arrest anyone who was openly laughing. He pushed his way to the outer edge of the square, hugging the walls of the townhouses and shops bordering it until he reached a heavy wooden gate in the grey stone wall. He slipped through it and let it fall shut behind him, the noise of the crowd suddenly and mercifully muffled by the barrier.

He found himself in a courtyard choked by flowering vines. Moss grew over the cobblestones beneath his feet, thriving on the moisture and darkness afforded by the shelter of the surrounding buildings. It was easy to find the house he was looking for. Even in hiding, Merigold had always had expensive taste.

He let himself in the front door, and found himself in a richly decorated parlor. Dozens of books lined the shelves built into the walls, heavy silver candelabras sat on the tables, and each chair was adorned with an embroidered silk pillow. She’d had certainly done well for herself here. There was no question she’d come a long way from wintering in the dust and grime at Kaer Morhen with the other wolves.

Lambert began climbing the stairs to the second floor. “Merigold?” he called out cautiously—a courtesy warning. He’d seen what she could do when she was pissed. He didn’t want to get his hair singed off.

“Lambert?” Came the disbelieving reply. As he reached the landing, he found himself in yet another spacious and lavishly decorated room, with enormous windows overlooking the courtyard below. The sorceress sat reclined in a chair, reading a book. Her red hair was ablaze in the afternoon sunlight. 

She stood when he entered, setting the tome aside. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Got a favor to ask,” Lambert said, not bothering with exchanging pleasantries. “A…friend of mine was murdered. I need to make the whoresons responsible pay. Preferably with their lives. But I got no idea where to start hunting. Thought a sorceress’s help might be useful.”

“A friend?” Merigold said, raising her eyebrow. “Really.”

“Look Merigold, I’m not going to stand here and argue the damn semantics—”

“And if you want my help, you can stop calling me by my last name. You know I hate it.” She crossed her arms.

Lambert sighed. “Fine. Triss—please. I have nowhere else to turn.”

Her expression softened at the desperation in his voice. “This person…they were important to you, weren’t they?”

Lambert nodded. “Yeah. He was.” He swallowed the lump that was rising in his throat.

Triss’s mouth twisted in sympathy. “Unfortunately, there’s not much I can do. But I do know someone who might be able to help.” 

She crossed to a low table and delicately picked up a scrap of parchment, bringing it to her lips and whispering something into it. Words appeared on the paper as she spoke. When she was finished, she rolled it into a small tube and tied it with a scrap of ribbon.

“Here,” she said, offering it to him. “Take this and go to the Golden Sturgeon. It’s a tavern by the docks. You’ll find a woman there—an oneiromancer. Her name is Corinne Tilly. She owes me a favor. Give her this message, and she’ll help you.”

Lambert nodded in appreciation and pocketed the note. “Thanks.”

Triss sat back down in her chair, crossing her legs. “Good luck, Lambert. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“See you around, Triss.”

~~~~~~

The Golden Sturgeon was nicer than the Nowhere, but not by much. It was certainly larger, but the dim lighting and dingy walls made the space feel cramped. Lambert wrinkled his nose at the scent of old fish that seemed to permeate every bit of the air in this part of the city.

He had a quick word with the innkeep, who pointed him upstairs, to a tiny room in a forgotten corner. He knocked, and the door opened a crack. A pair of sharp green eyes peered out at him. 

“Yes, what do you want?”

“Triss Merigold sent me.” Lambert dug in his pocket for the note and slipped it through the gap. He heard the crinkle of parchment as the woman unrolled it, her eyes widening slightly as they skimmed across the page. The door swung open the rest of the way.

“Come in,” the woman said. She was tall and slender, her eyes cast in shadow by the fringe of her dark brown hair. She dressed scantily, as many sorceresses did—her breasts were all but bared to the world, and her legs were completely exposed. Lambert had seen whores walking the street who were more covered.

She waved him toward a chair at a small table. The room was tiny, and made to feel even more so by the rich red tapestries that were hung to cover the walls. Candles littered every surface, their jumping flames throwing up shadows that shifted and danced in a way that made Lambert uneasy.

The woman closed the door behind him and moved to sit opposite him. She crossed her legs and regarded him curiously. “I am Corinne, as I’m sure you’ve gathered. What may I call you?”

“Lambert,” he said gruffly.

“Lambert,” she said, as if she were weighing the taste of his name on her tongue. “Why have you sought me out?”

Lambert made a fist against the table, looking down at his hands to avoid meeting her eyes. Something was off about them. It felt like she could see into his soul. “I need help,” he replied. Saying it out loud was painful. “I lost someone close to me. I need to find who’s responsible.”

“I see.” Corinne reached out and scattered some incense in a shallow dish, lighting it with one of the candles that sat on the table. It cracked and smoldered, sending tiny plumes of smoke into the air. “I may be able to help. I can summon dreams of the one you lost, although how clear or useful they are is entirely up to you.”

“What do you mean?” Lambert asked.

Corinne leaned forward, clasping her hands on the table. “You must tell me about the person I’m to dream of. I need real memories, the stronger the better. Things that tie you to this person. You must be entirely honest. Reticence, lies—even to oneself—obscure things greatly.”

“I get it.”

“We may begin whenever you’re ready.” Corinne regarded him patiently.

Lambert sifted things over in his mind, fishing for the right things to say. For a memory that distilled the essence of what Aiden was, of what he’d meant to him.

“I saved his life once,” he said finally. 

Corinne nodded, gesturing for him to continue. 

“It was in the woods, near some old even ruins somewhere in Velen? I barely remember…” he shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We were hunting a fiend. Dangerous whoresons, those. Even for two witchers. Aiden got cocky. He misjudged the situation.” Lambert closed his eyes, trying not to picture what had happened next. “The fiend gored him with its antlers and threw him halfway across the clearing. I managed to kill it, but it almost killed Aiden. I’ll never forget the way he looked, lying there bleeding in the mud. He was so much…smaller, somehow. Broken.”

“Thank you,” Corinne said, nodding in approval. “Would you care to share more?”

“Do I have to?” Lambert said, gritting his teeth.

“Everything helps. The more I know, the clearer the dreams will be.”

Lambert sighed. It was his own fault, really, that the strongest memories he had of Aiden were also the ones that hurt the most. 

“I remember the last time I saw him alive,” he said finally, the words tumbling from his mouth like a waterfall of poison. “I was angry. He’d done something unforgivable. I never even gave him the chance to explain. I just ran. Like I always do. He tried to stop me. He stood in my way when I tried to leave. I was ready to kill him myself just to get away.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “The look his face haunts my dreams at night. I’d never seen him so sad. So betrayed. I wanted to hurt him…I guess I succeeded.”

“Did you love this man?” Corinne asked, her frankness catching Lambert off guard.

“Does it matter?” he asked, hedging the question.

“Of course it matters. Emotions are tricky things. Dreams are trickier still.” She looked at him expectantly.

“…Yes,” Lambert said after a moment, refusing to meet her eyes. “I loved him.”

She stood, gesturing toward a small bed in the corner covered with embroidered pillows. “We can begin. Make yourself comfortable, and try to relax.”

Lambert rose and crossed to the bed, shrugging off his swordbelts and placing them next to him as he lay down. Corinne took her place in a straight-backed wooden chair next to his head, pulling some knitting needles and yarn from a basket at her feet. 

“Remember,” she said, “This may summon other dreams as well. It is up to you to filter out what is most important.”

Lambert took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The soft rhythmic click of the knitting needles slipping over each other echoed through his mind as he faded into sleep.

~~~~~~

Lambert was small. He struggled to maintain his unsteady seating on the back of the saddle, forced to grip onto the witcher’s waist to avoid falling off the horse entirely. The older man stank. His armor was stained with sour sweat, his grey beard and ponytail greasy and lank.

“Look, boy,” the witcher said, gesturing ahead of them. “We’re almost home.”

A castle was nestled into the valley ahead, its austere stone walls already crumbling in places. Mountains towered over it on all sides, their sharp peaks capped with snow. There was a faint screech of _something_ overhead. Lambert cast a wary eye skyward, at the dark shapes that circled above them. They were far too large to be crows.

“Harpies,” Vesemir said with a weary sigh. “You’ll get used to them. They’re vermin, like pigeons. More annoying than dangerous, most of the time.”

“I don’t care,” Lambert spat.

“Hmm,” Vesemir hummed. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll be there soon enough.”

“I won’t stay,” Lambert said. “I’ll run away. I’ll fight. I’ll kill you all if I have to. But I will get back to my mother.”

Vesemir sighed once more. “I understand your anger,” he allowed. “I felt it once, myself. No man chooses a witcher’s life for himself. But you will learn to accept it. Learn to lean on your brothers. A lone wolf is a vulnerable one.”

“You don’t understand a damn thing.” Lambert seethed, debating throwing himself from the saddle, but he knew he couldn’t outrun the witcher on foot. He’d have to wait, to make his escape later, under the cover of darkness. He could bide his time. He had to.

He bit his tongue and remained silent as the cold, unforgiving walls of the fortress rose up to swallow them.

~~~~~~

Water dripped steadily from Lambert's soaked clothing onto the dusty cave floor as he reached a helping hand down to the boy below him. "Come on, asshole, hurry up," he hissed, trying to mask his fear with bravado.

The cave was the worst part. He'd gathered that much from hearing the older witchers talk about the Trials. Dark as pitch and fraught with dangers, it was the part he was most apprehensive about tackling. He'd made it this far, at least. One boy from his group hadn't even made it across the lake. Whether he'd drowned or been grabbed by a water hag, Lambert didn't know. He didn't want to know. There wasn't time to dwell on it now anyway.

With a grunt, he hoisted Voltehre up onto the high ledge. "Come on," he said in a low voice. "Follow me. Don't talk."

The other boy nodded and followed close on his heels, sword drawn. Lambert carefully guided them through the tunnels, stepping carefully. A poorly-placed foot on a scree of loose rocks could send them both tumbling to their deaths.

A low, gravelly rumble reverberated through the cavern. Lambert stopped short, squinting with his newly-mutated eyes into the darkness. "Shit," he breathed, his gaze alighting on a mass of ugly grey flesh on the cavern floor.

"Old Speartip?" Voltehre whispered, gripping his sword apprehensively.

Lambert nodded. "Think so."

"What do we do?"

Lambert took a deep breath. "Sneak around him. If we keep to the edges of the cave, we should be okay. Stay close to me."

Voltehre nodded, carefully slipping down from the ledge behind Lambert. They made it halfway to the exit without incident. Lambert almost let himself breathe a sigh of relief.

The sharp crack of tumbling rocks ruined their chances of a stealthy escape. Another of the boys had fallen on the other side of the cavern, knocking a boulder loose as he fell to the floor. Old Speartip stirred from his slumber, climbing to his feet and letting loose a deafening roar.

" _Fuck,_ " Lambert hissed. "Run! While he's still distracted!"

"Lambert, we can't just _leave_ him there like that!" Voltehre pulled at the sleeve of his shirt. "Come on, we have to help him!"

Lambert cursed as Voltehre took off toward the lumbering mass of cyclops that was advancing on the other fledgling witcher. He looked longingly at the exit, almost within reach, and then gritted his teeth and drew his sword.

~~~~~~

The spring thaw had barely touched Aedirn. It was as if the seasons had simply forgotten to change. The faintest flurry of snow fell lazily through the air as Lambert rode into the once-familiar village, two swords gleaming on his back and a freshly-healed scar on his lip.

He tied his mare up outside the inn, making sure there were oats and water for her. It had been a long ride from Kaer Morhen.

"Oi! Master witcher!" a voice called out, and Lambert tensed up. Witcher. That was what he was now. A monster slayer for hire.

"What?" he spat, turning around to face the newcomer. To his surprise, the man's face was familiar. "Leonard?"

"Lambert?" The man practically staggered back in shock. "Ye gods...what happened to you?" His eyes flicked up and down, taking in the armor, the twin swords, the yellow cat's eyes gleaming in their sockets.

Lambert shrugged. "Long story."

"I thought you were dead," Leonard said in disbelief. "You just up and vanished one day. Everyone assumed your old man finally snapped and did you in, though we never could prove it."

"Well, as you can see, I'm very much alive," Lambert said with a joyless grin. "Speaking of dear old dad, I'd like to pay him a visit. You seen him around?"

Leonard shifted uncomfortably. "Well, if he's not in there drinking himself to death, he's probably doing the same at home."

Lambert nodded. "And mom?"

Leonard looked away. "Dead. Two winters past. He claimed it was suicide but...you know how he is..."

"Better than most," Lambert said, spitting on the ground as rage flared, white hot, inside his chest.

"Lambert..." Leonard said, eyes fearful. "What are you going to do?"

"Something I should have done a long time ago."

~~~~~~

Lambert sat alone at the table in the drafty kitchen, poking listlessly at his bowl of porridge. The enormous fire blazing in the grate did nothing to chase the chill away from his bones. He'd tried to run away three times since arriving at Kaer Morhen, and each time had been dragged back, kicking and screaming. He scraped his spoon murderously against the rough-hewn bowl and cursed under his breath.

Laughter from nearby—the rest of the boys in his cohort ribbing each other playfully over breakfast. Lambert kept his head down.

The bench across from him scraped across the stone floor, and two older men sat down. Lambert hadn't seen them before—they had already undergone the mutations, though, judging by their eyes. One had a shock of white hair, the other a dark brown mop and a deep, rumbling voice.

"—More trouble than they're worth," the white-haired witcher said, continuing an older conversation.

"Speak for yourself," the other replied. "I'd rather a succubus than a chort any day."

Lambert stared into his bowl, doing his best to ignore the witchers' presence. He let his spoon clatter to the table and pushed his food away from him, working to put together a new escape plot in his head.

"—new, right?" Lambert blinked in confusion, realizing that the white-haired man was talking to him. He nodded.

"What's your name?" The other asked, the bass of his voice seeming to fill the entire room.

"Lambert," he muttered, looking up sullenly to meet the witcher's gaze.

The witcher smiled, extending a large hand. "Nice to meet you, Lambert. I'm Eskel."

~~~~~~

Morning was dawning, grey and shrouded in threatening clouds, by the time Lambert managed to make his way back to the keep. He was alone, covered in cave dirt and slime, his hair matted with his own blood and the blood of his friends.

No one else had made it out. Old Speartip had made sure of that. Voltehre had died on that filthy cavern floor, his chest staved in like a smashed barrel. There was nothing Lambert could have done to save him. He'd only escaped by the skin of his teeth. There had been at least two other broken shapes on the ground nearby—he hadn't gotten a close enough look to see who else had fallen. For all he knew, he was the only one who had survived. 

He couldn't even bring himself to shed a tear for the others. Maybe what everyone said about the mutations was true—maybe they _had_ stripped him of emotion. He was used up. There was nothing left of him but anger.

He clutched the wolf's head medallion he held in his fist tightly, blood smearing across the cool metal.

He was still alive. He was still alive, and if it was the last thing he ever did, he was going to make them pay for what they'd done to him.

~~~~~~

Lambert's body was burning. Every inch, every particle of his being felt as if were being torn to pieces. He screamed until his voice was gone, the sheer force of it ripping his throat as it tore out of him. Guttural, animal, utterly inhuman.

He did not know how long he lay there in the darkness, strapped to the table with thick leather bonds. When he strained against them, trying desperately to tear free, splinters dug into his wrists. There had been others burning with him, before, but their voices had fallen silent long ago. The smell told him they were dead. Reason told him that he was next.

All he could do was scream. Scream until he thought the force of doing so might finally kill him. He prayed for death. Death would stop the pain. He just had to give in. To sink into the darkness.

A torch flared in the blackness of the room, and quiet footsteps approached his broken body. A familiar face in the gloom—Vesemir's, lined with sorrow. He inspected Lambert, looking over him before muttering something to an unseen person behind him, shaking his head.

With difficulty, Lambert drew breath, managing to rasp out a single word through cracked and bleeding lips as his burning eyes locked onto Vesemir's. "Why?"

The old man looked away, as if the word were a physical blow. The torchlight faded, footsteps retreating, until Lambert was alone once more, burning in the dark.

~~~~~~

Lambert strode up the path toward the house that had once been his home, fury crystallizing his heart with ice. The cottage was almost as he remembered it, though it was now beginning to show the strain of time. The flowering plants his mother had always kept trimmed and well-tended to had died, their husks littering the snow-covered path to the front door. The desiccated leaves crunched under his feet.

He let himself in. He figured there was no need to announce himself. It was his house, after all.

His father sat slumped over the simple table by the fire—a doughy, sweaty waste of a man, his balding head shining with grease and old sweat. Lambert wrinkled his nose. The stench of booze and old vomit had hit him like a ton of bricks as soon as he entered. Witcher mutations—he still hadn't gotten used to the heightened sense of smell.

The old man glanced up at him through bloodshot eyes and snorted. "Found your way home, did you?" he slurred. "Took you long enough. I'll admit I'm disappointed—was sort of hoping that freak would have the world a favor and thrown you to the first ghoul he saw." He straightened up, squinting at Lambert's yellow eyes, and then threw back his head and laughed. "Well, how about that. You're a freak now, too."

"I came back for mom," Lambert said coolly, looking down at him with contempt.

"Hmph. Bit late for that," his father replied smugly. "You telling me freaks like you still got a soft spot for their mummies?"

Lambert shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he said, advancing. "I also came to pay a debt. One that's several years overdue."

"What are you talking about, boy?"

Lambert grinned. "Been dreaming about this one for a long time, old man." He reached for the hilt of the silver sword at his back, drawing it slowly. It gleamed in the dying light of the fire. "You have any idea why a witcher carries two swords?"

"Never saw much reason to care," his father replied, draining the last of the liquor from the grubby bottle in his hand.

"A witcher," Lambert said, taking another step forward, "Must be equipped to deal with a variety of threats. Different swords for different jobs. He carries a steel sword—that one's simple, it's meant for killing men. But the silver one?"

Lambert drew back his arm, admiring the fine details of the blade for a moment. "The silver one," he said, plunging the sword into his father's chest, "Is for monsters."

An expression of mixed shock and disbelief crossed his father's face, and then the old man coughed, spraying blood across Lambert's gambeson as Lambert withdrew his blade. Lambert wiped the metal clean with a rag, examining the blade for any spots he might have missed dispassionately as the life drained out of the man who had killed his mother.

He rode away from the village at dawn with a smile on his face.

~~~~~~

Aiden moved quickly through the winding streets of Ellander, hood pulled up to hide his face. The footsteps were drawing closer. He glanced over his shoulder but couldn't make out anything concrete. The shadows seemed to shift in the corner of his eye, amplified by paranoia into grasping hands that reached out to swallow him whole.

His heart pounded in his chest as he broke into an all-out sprint, feet skidding on wet cobblestones as he darted around sharp corners. He was losing his lead—they were close enough to smell him, now—

He rounded another bend, almost losing his footing in the process, and found himself face-to-face with a brick wall. "Shit," he breathed. No time, no time. He was trapped.

"There's no point in running," a sleek, polished voice said behind him. 

Aiden tensed, his suspicions confirmed. He stood up straight and turned to face his pursuer. He'd barely changed since the last time Aiden had seen him. Hollow cheeks masked by a full dark beard. Golden cat eyes that looked even more out of place when juxtaposed with his aristocratic nose.

"Jad. Thought you might have learned your lesson the last time."

The other man smiled joylessly. "Oh, but I did." He gestured lightly up at the roof of a nearby house, where an elf with a long dark plait was perched with a crossbow. It was aimed right between his eyes.

Aiden's mouth pressed into a thin line. "That's hardly a fair fight."

"I never intended it to be." The other witcher regarded him contemptuously. Three other figures slipped into the alley behind him—a lithe woman with short dark hair, a tall, skinny man with a clean-shaven face, and a lumbering hulk of a man with a neck so muscular his head seemed to sit directly on his shoulders. The witcher raised an eyebrow at the elf on the roof.

Immediately, a crossbow bolt sang through the air. Aiden's sword was drawn and up just in time to deflect it, the sound of it metal striking metal reverberating through the alleyway like the hum of a tuning fork.

"Lund, Selyse, Hammond—take care of him," the witcher commanded. The smaller of the two men stepped forward, drawing a short sword. The woman followed, two evil-looking knives held at the ready.

"With pleasure, Karadin," she purred.

"It doesn't have to be like this, Jad," Aiden called out, sword held at the ready as the assassins advanced on him. "I've always been more than happy to let the past die."

"What a coincidence." Karadin bared his teeth. "So have I."

The woman threw herself at Aiden, knives darting out to slice into Aiden's flank. He pirouetted, dodging the worst of it, and slashed out in a wide arc that was stopped by Lund's short sword. Aiden shoved him back with a blast of Aard, whirling around just in time to evade a vicious stab from Selyse's daggers. Sparks flew from his fingers, and she fell back, clutching her face. The acrid scent of singed flesh and burning hair filled the air.

The barrel-chested man entered the fray, swinging wildly at Aiden with a massive war hammer. Aiden dodged the blow, which slammed into the cobblestones hard enough to crack them. Hammond was strong as an ox, but his size made him slow—he swung at Aiden, but his attacks were easy to evade. Aiden used his own momentum against him, ducking under Hammond's arm to get behind him. He struck the larger man hard at the base of the skull with the pommel of his sword, and he fell to the ground with a dull thud.

Lund scrambled back to his feet and charged at Aiden, swinging wildly with his short sword. The strokes were clumsy and easy to evade. Aiden dodged and swung back at him, sword biting deep into the man's leg. It crumpled beneath him, dark blood seeping from the gash.

Lund was brought to his knees, his injured leg shaking underneath him. Aiden extended his sword, the point pressing into Lund's throat. A thin line of red welled up where the razor-sharp steel made contact with his stubbled skin.

"Please don't make me do this, Jad," Aiden implored. 

Another crossbow bolt whistled through the air. He managed to parry it, but only just. In the brief second of opportunity available, Lund dragged himself out of the way. 

"We were brothers. I have no desire to spill your blood."

The other witcher let out a weary sigh. "Very well. I suppose I shall have to do this myself. This one requires a more...personal touch, anyway." 

He stepped forward, drawing his sword. Witcher’s steel, honed to a deadly point. The flat of it gleamed in the dying light.

Aiden tensed, circling in tandem with Karadin, waiting for the other man to make the first move.

Steel flashed like lightning, and the witchers were a storm of blades and fury, their movements almost too fast to be seen. Aiden, pirouetting and bringing his blade down on Karadin's sword arm, most likely hoping to maim the man but not kill him—Karadin side-stepping the attack and countering with a slash to Aiden's abdomen that skimmed across the metal plating set into his armor. Aiden following with an uppercut that managed to graze Karadin with the point of his sword, a thin line of red streaming from his cheek.

Karadin fought much the same as Aiden did—quick, light on his feet, almost as if he were dancing. The two of them mirrored each other as they whirled and slashed and dodged, locked in a rapid waltz that only they knew the steps to. If one of them hadn't been trying to murder the other, it might have been beautiful to watch.

Karadin swung, his blade arcing over Aiden's head to come down on top of him. Aiden raised his own sword to block, his open palm supporting the flat of the blade. A loud clang rang out through the alleyway as steel met steel, and Aiden's sword, worn thin by time and compulsive over-sharpening, shattered. Shards of metal clattered to the ground, where they twinkled like pieces of a broken mirror.

Aiden staggered back, thrown off by the shift in balance. That was all the opportunity Karadin needed.

He lunged forward, plunging his sword into Aiden's heart. 

Blood sprayed from the witcher's lips as shock spread over his face. Karadin bared his teeth, grinning as he withdrew the blade. 

Aiden sank to his knees, clutching at his chest. Gouts of dark, thick blood poured from the wound.

"It appears that the better man doesn't always win, after all," Karadin said with a smirk as he sheathed his sword. He gestured, and his injured lackeys gathered themselves up and began to retreat.

Aiden's lips moved, whispering the ghost of a single word that came out bloody and mangled. He spoke it with regret, like a prayer he knew was never going to be answered. "Lambert..."

Karadin raised an eyebrow at the archer on the rooftop. "Vienne?"

A crossbow bolt sang through the air, and everything went black.

~~~~~~

Lambert awoke with tears on his face, something deep inside him shattered like the pieces of Aiden's sword. He sat up, wiping them away angrily, as rage settled in his stomach like a ball of lead.

 _Vienne. Lund. Selyse. Hammond._ He ran through the list in his head like a mantra, etching their names in his heart so he would never forget them. He paused, clenching his teeth.

_Karadin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favorite chapters to write in this work. I hope you liked it!
> 
> Secondly, an announcement: there will be no update next Monday (12/31) as I will be on vacation and away from my devices. Look for a new chapter on 1/7/19 :)
> 
> I hope your holidays are wonderful and I’ll see you in the new year! 💙


	18. Following the Thread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion/)!

As it turned out, hunting down a band of brigands who had no intention of being found was no easy task. No matter how driven Lambert was in his quest for revenge, he was only as good a hunter as the trail he could pick up. And of that, there was next to nothing.

Novigrad was something of a nexus for the northern realms. Everyone and everything passed through the city on the way to their final destinations. It was also something of a clearinghouse for stolen wares and illicit jobs, thanks to the vast criminal network that permeated every nook and cranny. If an assassin were looking for work, it would make sense for them to look here. Lambert could just stay close and observe—the odds were good that eventually one of Karadin's band would surface.

Besides, he couldn't bear the thought of returning to Ellander to search there. He wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to set foot in the city again. The wounds were too deep. Even the slightest thought of the city called images of Aiden's pale and bloodied body to the front of his mind, and no matter what he did, he couldn't suppress them. He clenched his fists, fingernails biting into his palm hard enough to draw blood. He drank his coin, hoping the alcohol might deaden some of the memories, but that was no use. If anything, it made them stronger, gave them more power. Shapes morphed and twisted in his nightmares.

He still found himself looking over his shoulder for Aiden. The empty air seemed to mock him. Every time it happened, the wounds broke open anew.

After weeks of fruitless searching, Lambert found himself low on coin and patience. He needed to pick up a job—half because he needed to get paid, and half because he needed the excuse to kill something. To make something, anything, feel even a modicum of the pain that seared through his bones with every second of every day that he woke up alone.

That was how he found himself standing ankle deep in muck and brackish water as he passed through the Novigrad fish market. The grey sky matched Lambert's sour mood as he made the trek outside the city gates to the notice board in Farcorners. The others scattered around the city had been picked clean. Mercenaries and would-be knights would occasionally pick up monster contracts, usually either out of greed or a desire for glory. Whatever the motivation, the action itself still distilled down to pure idiocy, in Lambert's opinion. It was annoying when the whoresons cut into his own pocket. It was even more annoying when he had to deal with the bodies when they inevitably got themselves killed.

The notice board in Farcorners didn't look promising, either. There were a few sun-faded pieces of parchment left: a job notice for the dyeworks, a rambling sermon about sin and the eternal fire that made Lambert roll his eyes so hard he thought he might lose them in the back of his head, and a note from a jilted lover denouncing “that mongrel, Dandelion” for his wandering attentions. Nothing that would help him get paid.

Lambert cursed and turned on his heel, ready to stalk off toward the next board. If that failed, he would ask at the taverns. There had to be some work for him, somewhere.

He made it as far as the end of the street when the sound of hammering caught his attention. He turned to see a temple guardsman nailing up a crisp new notice. Lambert ripped the paper down as soon as the man turned his back, eyes skimming over the neat black script.

_By order of the City Council number 1408/DZ/185, a reward has been set aside for the killing of the monster which torments and murders residents of the Bits after dark._

_The only acceptable proof of having performed this deed shall be a trophy taken from the monster's body._

_Yes, this means your mother's or cousin's or aunt's eyewitness testimony will not suffice, nor will the sworn word of any other person, regardless of his or her claimed relationship to you, the Hierarch or anyone else, and also without caring one whit for his or her alleged trustworthiness, which supposedly can be attested to by anyone at your favorite drinking hall._

_For more information and/or to collect the reward, see the District Superintendent for the Bits._

_-Lund_  
By writ of the City Council  
Superintendent of the Bits 

Lambert froze, blinking, and reread the notice once, twice more. A wicked grin slowly spread over his face as one word stood out amongst all the others.

Lund.

~~~~~~

Lambert walked clear to the other side of town without breaking stride, the notice clenched tightly in his fist as if he were afraid it might vanish if he loosened his grip. He found himself outside a small gated compound, guarded by a single temple guardsman with a halberd.

"State your business," the man barked as he approached.

"I need to see Lund," Lambert growled, the parchment in his hand crinkling as he squeezed it tighter.

The guard shook his head. "No one sees the supervisor. He's much too busy to sit around listening to your petty grievances."

Lambert clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. He held up the crumpled notice. "I'm here about the job."

"Ah, yes. The beast. Nasty business, that."

"If I take care of this for your precious supervisor, do you think he'd deign to meet with me then?"

The guard shifted, regarding Lambert disinterestedly. "Depends on his mood. But you're welcome to try."

"Fine. Tell me about this so-called beast."

The man shrugged. "A monster like any other, I'd expect. Preys on isolated folk. Only strikes at night. It's been happening for a while now." He gestured at a small building nearby. "Beast got in there and killed a beggar last night. Suppose it was too close to home, because now the council's all up in arms about it. Says it's got to be dealt with."

"Is the body still there?"

"Yeah, I reckon it is." The guard scratched at his beard. "Haven't seen Eustace come by to collect him yet. Witch hunters've probably got him busy this morning."

"Thanks," Lambert said begrudgingly, and stalked off to investigate.

~~~~~~

The body was in the shed, just as the guardsman had said. A beggar, by the looks of him, his clothes in tatters and caked with filth. He was emaciated, his flesh pulled tight to his ribs and his abdomen sunken. His skin was white as a sheet.

Lambert lifted one pale arm, checking the underside for lividity. There was none.

No lividity meant no blood. No blood certainly meant a vampire. A lesser one, most likely. Higher vampires were typically more careful than this.

There were tracks, too, in the grain dust that was spread in a thick layer across the floor. Large, wide footprints, with three long toes that terminated in claws. Lambert could see tiny divots where they had dug into the wood of the floor. Those tracks combined with the exsanguinated corpse could only mean one thing. An ekimmara.

He crouched down, examining the tracks closely. The middle toe was much longer than the others, and the heel had a telltale narrowing at its base. A female, then. Perhaps a brooding one. She was bound to be dangerous.

Lambert stood and followed the trail of footprints. He found himself feeling grateful for the recent rain—the mud that had churned up in the wake of the storms that seemed to shower constantly over Novigrad retained a perfect impression of the ekimmara's tracks. He jogged along the riverbank, following the prints as they grew more and more spaced out where the creature had broken into a run. They turned sharply and abruptly ended at the riverbank.

"Fuck," he cursed, spitting on the ground. "Lost it."

He scanned across the water for likely egress points. Just across the water on the other bank was a small mill that appeared to be abandoned.

"Got you," Lambert muttered, and beelined for the nearest bridge.

The beast's mucky footprints picked up exactly where he'd thought they might be, on the small dock surrounding the mill. It must have retreated to its lair to lick its wounds. Ekimmaras didn't tend to come out during the day—if he was lucky, he might be able to catch it sleeping and end things quickly. Lambert wasn't terribly keen on fighting vampires. He touched the scars on his temple lightly, remembering the bruxa that had left them there. Never mind the alp that he'd fought with Aiden the last time he was in Novigrad.

The sick feeling that came up whenever he thought of Aiden hit him like a blow to the chest. He stood still for a moment, focusing on swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. He didn't have time for this. He didn't have time to grieve. He had to keep moving. The only thing that mattered anymore was vengeance.

He dug in his pockets for the tiny vial of vampire oil he had left and splashed it haphazardly onto his blade. Any advantage would do. He couldn't risk waiting the length of time it would take him to brew Devil's Puffball. It was now or never.

The old wooden door creaked as Lambert pushed it slowly open. He entered the darkened building cautiously, silver sword already drawn, scanning the room for any sign of movement.

Nothing. He turned his attention to the stairs to the second level, creeping slowly up them so as not to alert the vampire to his presence. He could hear breathing, ever-so-faintly, coming from above.

As he ascended to the upper level, Lambert could see that the ekimmara was indeed there. It was hunched over in a corner, eyes closed, cradling an arm that appeared to be injured. Lambert could smell its blood, dark and caustic, in the air.

He crept as close as he dared, sword poised to strike. With a swift, practiced movement, he slashed to catch the beast in the throat.

The instant he moved, its eyes flew open. It was fast, much faster than him. It flung out one long, sinewy arm, deflecting his sword away from its vital organs. Silver bit into the flesh of its wrist and it howled, batting at him and knocking him backward across the dusty floor.

"Shit," he growled, blade up just in time to block its claws from sinking into his chest. He scrambled to his feet, throwing his hand forward in the sign of Igni as the vampire charged at him.

Flames flew from his fingers, and the ekimmara screamed. The scent of burning hair and flesh filled Lambert's nostrils as he pirouetted and slashed at the monster, his sword slicing into the flesh of its thigh. It screamed again, seemingly more out of anger than pain, and retreated, attempting to make space between itself and Lambert.

"Oh no you fuckin' don't," Lambert growled, running after it.

Another set of footsteps, climbing up the stairs. Footsteps that were too light for a human. For a moment, just a moment, Lambert’s heart soared in his chest, hoping against hope for the impossible.

A familiar man with white hair and a scarred face materialized instead. Not Aiden. Geralt. Lambert bit his tongue. "Geralt," he shouted in a warning tone. "Careful, she's strong!"

Geralt didn't need any invitation. He drew his own silver sword, circling around the vampire so that it was trapped between the two of them. The ekimmara swiped at him with its claws; Geralt rolled to evade and slashed viciously at its arm when he regained his footing, severing its hand at the wrist.

It was over quickly after that. In tandem, almost as if they had planned it, the witchers drew the sign of Igni and engulfed the ekimmara in flames. It screamed as it died, the sound climbing in pitch until it was almost unbearable to Lambert's ears and then suddenly ceasing as it succumbed to the fire.

Lambert sheathed his sword, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction. It felt good to fight beside someone again. He and Geralt hadn't needed words to communicate, they'd simply gone to the task and done it. It made sense that they would be so well-coordinated after all this time. Lambert had been fighting alongside the famous White Wolf for practically his entire life.

As the conflagration died down, Geralt sheathed his own sword. "Greetings, Lambert."

Lambert allowed himself a half-smile. "Damn, it's good to see you, Wolf."

“Decide to do some hunting in Novigrad?” Geralt asked, one eyebrow raised. “Far as I remember, you never liked this city.”

“Still don’t.” Lambert gritted his teeth. “Thing is, I got a certain matter to take care of.”

“Anything I can help with?”

Lambert knelt, drawing a long knife from his belt and slicing the head off the charred remains of the vampire. “Hmm. Maybe. But we’ll talk about that later.” He stood, holding the trophy by one long ear. “Right now, we’ve got our reward to collect. I’m kind of in a hurry—let’s say you’ve earned half, what the hell.”

Geralt nodded in agreement. “Let’s go.”

~~~~~~

The temple guardsman was still standing by the door where Lambert had left him several hours before. He surveyed the witchers with a grumpy expression as they approached, arms folded defensively.

"So?" he asked in a gruff tone.

"What do you think?" Lambert replied, rolling his eyes. He tossed the ekimmara trophy to the ground at the man's feet. It landed with a dull thud. "We did what we had to do. Time to pay up."

The guard eyed the trophy and nodded. "Wait here, then. I'll go see the supervisor, get your reward."

Lambert shook his head. "Do that ourselves. No reason you should abandon your post." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Geralt raise one silver eyebrow.

The man mulled things over for a moment, looking as if the strain of making such a decision was too much for his mental faculties. Finally, he shrugged. "Can't argue with reason. Go on in." He stepped aside.

The door he was guarding led into a small, open courtyard, its walls choked with climbing ivy. A cart of grain sat to one side of the open space. In the center burned a large fire.

Standing in front of the flames, warming his hands, was the thin, weak-chinned man Lambert had seen in his dream. He stood with his back to the witchers, unaware of their approach. Lambert cleared his throat, and the man jumped.

"We dealt with the monster at the docks," he said aggressively. "Here for our reward."

Lund spun around, skeptical on his face. "Witchers? Since when do you travel in pairs?" He crossed his arms.

A knot twisted in Lambert's gut. "Lot of dangers lie in wait for a lone witcher. Bandits, for example." He practically spat the words.

Dawning realization spread over Lund's face. "I'll advise you to change your tone," he said, glancing at the temple guardsmen who were clustered in the opposite corner of the courtyard.

Lambert stepped toward him menacingly. "Where's Jad Karadin?" He narrowed his eyes. "Talk."

"Who?" Geralt chimed in, a bemused expression on his face.

"Trust me, Geralt, this is important," Lambert said over his shoulder. "There's something I gotta know."

Lund's face twisted in irritation. "I do not know any Karadin." He turned his back on the witchers and began to walk away. "Take your coin and bugger off. Before I lose my temper."

"Where's Jad Karadin?" Lambert shouted angrily at his retreating back. "Asking you for the last time!"

Lund's pace quickened as he made for a small door in the stone wall of the courtyard. "Guards!" He yelled. "To the dungeon with him!"

"Son of a whore," Lambert muttered, running after him as the temple guardsmen converged, leaving Geralt to deal with them.

Lund had locked the door behind him. 

"Not today, asshole," Lambert said, drawing the sign of Aard and blasting the door full-force, splintering it and knocking it off its hinges. A startled yelp came from inside the room as it fell inward, crashing to the floor. Lambert drew his sword as he entered, pointing it threateningly at the cowering man.

"Got you now, you son of a bitch," he growled. "Nowhere left to run. Tell me where your boss is."

"W-what do you want with him?" Lund stuttered, eyes flicking wildly back and forth as he scanned the room for something he could use to defend himself and found nothing.

"A witcher named Aiden. Remember him?”

"I—"

"Save it," Lambert growled. "I'm talking now. You were working for Karadin. You and your buddies hunted him down like a dog and murdered him in cold blood. And now you're going to pay the price for it." He took a step forward. "Unless, that is, you can lead me to Karadin."

"Please," Lund pleaded. "I don't know where he is. I haven't seen him in ages. He’s cut ties with all of us."

Lambert gritted his teeth. "Bullshit."

Geralt's soft steps approached from behind him. "This guy's more trouble than the ekimmara," Lambert said, taking another step toward the cowering man.

"K-Karadin's disappeared, I swear!" Lund said, eyes begging for Geralt to intercede. "The others too! I-I know only of Vienne..."

"Yeah? What about Vienne?" Lambert said.

Lund gestured vaguely toward the east. "She drinks at the Seven Cats. She's there day and night."

Lambert smiled joylessly. "See? You can be helpful."

Lund began to stand, relief evident in his face as he apparently assumed the threat to his life was past. With one quick, practiced motion, Lambert lunged forward and ran his sword through the man's chest. A look of shock spread across his face. Lambert withdrew his sword, and he fell to the ground, motionless.

Sheathing his sword, Lambert turned to face Geralt.

"You crazy? What the hell are you doing?" Geralt said in disbelief, staring at the blood slowly seeping from the body on the floor.

"I can explain everything," Lambert replied.

Geralt raised an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

Lambert shook his head. "More guardsmen will show soon. Let's go—meet me at the Seven Cats. I'll tell you everything there."

"The tavern Vienne frequents?" Geralt asked, a challenge evident in his tone.

Lambert looked away. "Yeah. See you later," he said, heading for the door.

~~~~~~

The sun was beginning to set by the time Geralt finally arrived at the tavern. Lambert leaned against a low wall across from the notice board, watching the door to the inn carefully. There’d been no sign of the dark-haired elf from his dream in the time he’d been waiting. He had to assume that she was already inside. At the very least, he knew she hadn’t left.

Geralt stopped in front of Lambert, arms crossed. “Alright, high time you explained some things. Why’d you kill Lund? What’s this all about?”

“Hmm.” Lambert glanced at the door again. “Want the short version, or the long one?”

Geralt sighed wearily. “Let me hear the whole thing.”

“Alright.” Lambert ground his teeth for a moment, getting his words together. “I had a friend,” he said finally. “Aiden was his name.” The word tasted bitter on his tongue.

“ _You_ had a friend?” Geralt snorted.

Lambert briefly considered punching him. He narrowed his eyes. “Oh, hi-fuckin-larious.” He sighed. “I met him after I accepted a contract to lift the curse from the Ogre of Ellander. Aiden had been hired to kill it. He was a witcher from the School of the Cat.”

Geralt nodded. “I heard about that. Far as I remember, the ogre was killed in the end.”

“Yeah. Well, after it crushed my employer, we really didn’t have a choice. I cut a deal with Aiden. We joined forced, split the reward for killing the ogre between the two of us. After that, we worked together a lot.” Lambert looked down at his boots. “Hands down the best man I’d ever met. I mean—” he glanced up at Geralt. “I like you. You know that. Still, no comparison.”

“What happened to him?”

Lambert grimaced. “He was murdered.” It hurt to say it out loud. Like uttering the phrase somehow made it more true, more permanent. Like the part of him that still hoped against hope that he might see Aiden again was slowly shriveling up. “It happened in Ellander,” he said after a moment. “A group of hired assassins tracked him down and killed him. Our dear supervisor was one of them.” He smiled joylessly. “I got four more to go.”

“And Jad Karadin?”

“The assassins’ leader,” Lambert replied, his lip curling in a snarl. “And the one to deal the mortal blow.”

Geralt’s face softened. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

Lambert shook his head. “I don’t need your sympathy. Just your help.” He uncrossed his arms, standing. “We have to talk to Vienne. She must have had enough to drink by now. Let’s go.” Without waiting for a response, he strode toward the tavern door.

The Seven Cats was an inn like any other. It was framed by walls of stacked rough-hewn logs, crudely-painted flowers in primary colors used in a failed attempt to disguise their irregular surfaces. Assorted townsfolk in drab, threadbare clothing sat scattered at the tables, drowning their various sorrows in drink. The only thing that cut through the low murmur of the crowd was the occasional yowl of a tomcat outside.

It didn’t take long for Lambert to spot her. Sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the inn with her feet up on the bench was the black-haired elf from Lambert’s vision. Her braid was disheveled, as if she’d gone several days without re-plaiting it, and her eyes were bloodshot. She stared moodily into the bottom of her drink, hiccuping.

“That’s her,” Lambert muttered to Geralt, nodding in the elf’s direction. The other witcher nodded, approaching the table.

“Vienne?” He said.

She blinked several times, squinting as if she were having a hard time seeing them. When her eyes focused and lit on the twin swords at the witchers’ backs, her mouth twisted in disdain. “What do _you_ want?” she spat, glaring at them.

“We want to see Jad Karadin,” Lambert replied, crossing his arms.

Vienne stared at him with narrowed eyes for a moment before exploding into a peal of derisive laughter. “Oh, and why would I help you?”

“It’s really important to my friend here.” Geralt gestured at Lambert.

The elf snorted. “And what will I get out of it?”

“Pay for your beer, for starters,” Lambert said, holding up a crown. “Then we’ll see how valuable your information is.”

Vienne drank deeply from her mug. Lambert wrinkled his nose. He could smell her from where he was standing. Alcohol practically seeped from her pores. She’d been at this a while.

“I was part of Karadin’s band,” she finally admitted. “But…when was that?” She shook her head. “I dunno where to find him. I’ve fallen out with the lot.”

Geralt moved to sit down as she spoke, and Lambert followed suit, leaning forward in interest.

“Besides.” Vienne gestured with her drink hand, sloshing liquor over the rim and down her arm. “He’s no longer chummy with his old mates. Word around town is he’s changed.”

“Where are the others?” Lambert said, doing his best to keep his tone under control.

Vienne sighed. “They’ve scattered all over the world. Selyse went to Tretogor, Hammond to Skellige, and Lund—”

“Lund’s dead,” Lambert cut in, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

She looked at him blankly for a moment and then threw her head back and laughed. “Finally met his match, eh? Well.” She took another draught of liquor. “You’ve only Hammond or Selyse to talk to, then.” She smirked.

Anger flared in Lambert’s chest. Vienne had already told them everything she seemed to know. She was expendable, now. He thought about the crossbow bolt protruding from Aiden’s ruined eye and blackness closed around his heart.

“You had a hand in the murder of a witcher named Aiden,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. “Name ring any bells?”

She glared at him sullenly through liquor-dulled eyes. “Perhaps,” she hissed. “I don’t remember.”

Lambert bristled. Geralt held up a hand in a calming gesture. “Lambert, she doesn’t know anything.”

“Don’t go looking for Karadin,” Vienne slurred. “If he senses you nipping at his heels, he’ll kill you without batting an eye.”

Lambert snorted. “We’ll see. As for you…”

"No, Lambert." Geralt's voice was firm.

Lambert looked down at Vienne, a shell of a woman. At her beer-stained clothes and flyaway hair. At her bloodshot eyes and the faint yellow tint to her skin that foretold an alcoholic's death. She'd already destroyed her own life far more efficiently than he ever could.

"Fine. Better to leave her like this." He glared down at her, lip curling in hatred. "If I ever see you again, there will be blood."

"Come on. Let's go." Geralt put a hand on Lambert's back and guided him toward the door.

"Hey! What about my coin?" Vienne whined at their retreating backs. 

Lambert stepped out into the cool night and ran a hand through his hair, looking up at the black sky. One in Tretogor, one in Skellige. Too much ground to cover for one man. If he tried to go after them both, there was a good chance he'd end up losing Karadin's trail entirely. He scuffed the dirt with his boot and cursed under his breath.

"You gotta help me, Geralt. Best thing would be to split up. You sail to Skellige, try to squeeze something out of Hammond. I'll go to Tretogor and meet with Selyse."

"Lambert, let's talk about this—"

"No, let's not," he interrupted. "This is one of those situations, serious situations, where you don't ask unnecessary questions and just help your friend."

Geralt sighed. "Where will we meet once I'm back?"

Lambert picked the only place he could think of. "The Nowhere Inn."

"Alright." Geralt sighed again, resignation evident in every line of his face. "I'm off. Good luck."

With a nod and a hasty embrace, the witchers parted ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2019! I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season. Regular posting schedule resumes now with updates every Monday :)
> 
> Disclaimer: as this chapter intersects the events of the main game, some of the original dialogue from those scenes was used in the interest of canon compliance. I can't claim ownership of those lines; they belong to the very talented writers at CDPR.


	19. Black Lily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read by [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion).

Lambert would never have chosen to travel to Tretogor of his own accord. It was a shorter journey by far from Novigrad than Skellige was, but the way was dangerous, especially for one traveling alone. The entire country was in shambles. Radovid's war had come to his own people, his soldiers stealing from, raping, and killing his own citizens as they marched their way across the land. Lambert passed villages of burnt-down homes, their charred frames still standing like husks of lives once lived.

The climate had changed for him, too. Witchers were seldom welcomed anywhere—they were a necessary evil. Beings that were to be tolerated, perhaps pitied, and only interacted with when absolutely necessary. The common folk saw them as dirty. They saw witchers as monsters themselves. They still lived in fear that witchers were going to come and steal away their children in the night.

Add in a half-mad ruler, general hysteria, and a specially-created task force designed to hunt down and eliminate those who were different, and the entirety of Redania became dangerous for Lambert. In some villages he passed through, he didn't see a single soul. They were all hiding somewhere, presumably. In others, they simply watched him, eyes driving daggers into his back until his horse finally vanished over the next horizon. It was only a matter of time before someone was stupid enough to try to attack him. The air was thick with tension, and it threatened to boil over at any moment.

Lambert stayed off the beaten path, forgoing the inns and taverns in favor of setting up his bedroll in the woods by a fire and subsisting off the hastily-purchased supplies he'd gathered before leaving Novigrad. He compulsively read Aiden’s letter every night without fail, searching the lines for some hidden meaning. None revealed itself to him.

It took him a couple of extra days to arrive at Tretogor, but he got there more or less in one piece.

The city was vastly underwhelming compared to Novigrad or even Pont Vanis. A plain wall, unadorned except for a few flags emblazoned with the Redanian eagle, encircled the capital. The houses within were small and squat, nestled up against each other seemingly with no rhyme or reason. There were many streets that seemed to lead in circles, and many others that seemed to lead nowhere at all. It was as if the city had simply sprung up one day, its builders dropping houses wherever they fit with no plan in particular.

And that may well have been the case. The largest structure in Tretogor, the royal palace, towered over everything else from where it sat directly in the city's center. It was the only thing within the walls that could possibly be construed as grand, with its intricately detailed marble columns and buttresses. It was clearly built to withstand a siege, thick walls and small windows protecting that which was concealed within.

Lambert kept his head down as he rode through the main gate. The guards standing on either eyed him warily, but let him pass.

He stabled his horse and made his way into the city on foot. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing that he had Aiden's hood. Most days, he was happy to simply glare defiantly at anyone who looked at him wrong, but here in the lion's den hiding his face would be simpler and more prudent.

He kept to the side paths and alleys as he ventured through the drab streets, the dirty color of the stone walls of Tretogor blending seamlessly with the threatening sky. It wasn't hard to find what he was looking for. There was only one brothel in town, which in Lambert's opinion was an indication of a piss-poor capital city. Even Vizima had had several. Hell, he'd been to ramshackle shanty towns that still had at least two.

The Black Lily, its name underscored with a flower painted on the signpost, was one of the few buildings in the city that stood more than one story tall. It was apparent to Lambert as he approached that whoever had designed it had attempted to copy Novigrad's Passiflora and fallen woefully short. The exterior lacked embellishment, its plain walls towering over the neighboring houses in in a way that made one think more of a jail than a house of pleasure. The red lanterns that hung out front, the universal symbol for a house of ill repute, burned dimly through the thin fog that swirled about the city streets. On the upper balcony, two scantily-clad girls leaned over the railing, chatting idly with each other while they shared a fistful of what was presumably fisstech. Lambert wrinkled his nose. He'd never understood what people liked about the stuff.

Lambert entered through the ground floor and found himself in a dimly-lit parlor. The brothel's proprietor had apparently tried to compensate for the depressing exterior by going all-out on the interior decorations, but they had widely missed the mark. The multitude of richly colored woven hangings that covered the walls and draped down from the ceiling only served to make the space feel darker and more claustrophobic. The tallow candles that burned on every surface seemed to give off more heat than light and filled the air with the oily scent of burning fat. The poor lighting gave rise to many shadowy corners. Lambert could see hints of movement in several of them, which led him to think that perhaps the darkness was intentional. A breathy moan from one of the corners told him that he was probably right.

The woman who stood in the center of the room, observing the goings-on, wasn't the one he remembered from his vision. She wore a dress of elegantly-draped brocade, and diamonds sparkled at her neck. He approached her cautiously, mentally comparing her face with the one he’d memorized, trying to make them fit.

“Greetings,” she purred as he approached. “Interested in time with one of our girls? I think you’ll find that their charms are the best in the northern realms.” 

Lambert sincerely doubted it.

“You the madame?” He asked, folding his arms.

“I manage the business side of things,” she replied, one eyebrow raised. "Why?"

Lambert shook his head. "Not important. Just thought I'd drop in on an old friend. I'll just have a drink for now, think things over."

"Very well then." The woman waved to a girl in a lace slip who was clearing away empty glasses from one of the low tables scattered around the parlor. "Astrid?"

"Yes, Lady Celandine?" She straightened, smoothing the wrinkles from her dress.

"Come fetch our guest a drink. See to it that he's kept comfortable."

She dipped her head. "Of course."

"Have a seat wherever you'd like," Celandine said to Lambert, gesturing widely about the room. "You may find yet that you'd like to partake of our wares. Astrid can be quite charming. I'd wager she's your type."

Lambert nodded. "Thanks."

He picked a cushioned bench in a far corner—somewhere that was out of the way but still offered a good view of the room. The best he could do for now was to wait for Selyse to show herself. As much as he would have liked to, ripping the place apart board by board would only attract the attention of the guards. He'd have to bide his time.

The girl in the lace slip returned with a brimming glass of dark liquor, bending over seductively as she set it on the table in front of him. Her black curls spilled down over her bare shoulders. Lambert was suddenly and uncomfortably forced to think of Yennefer. Any attraction he might have felt toward the girl shriveled and died in its tracks.

"Is there anything else I can fetch for you, my lord?" she asked, green eyes flicking up to glance at him through thick dark lashes.

Lambert shook his head. "Sorry, not interested."

She pouted. "What a shame. Witchers come this way so rarely. I'd often wondered if the rumors were true..." Her eyes flicked down to his trousers.

Lambert sighed. He knew what rumors she meant. Gossip spread like wildfire among the common folk. Many of them still held the preposterous belief that the mutations cursed witchers with monster cocks, or blessed them with tireless stamina. "They're not," he said bluntly. "Sorry to disappoint."

He thought for a moment. "Actually—" he said, as she turned to saunter away, "Maybe you do have something I want."

"Oh really?" She sat on the bench beside him, crossing her long legs and leaning in. "And what might that be?" Her breath was hot against his ear.

"Your tongue." Lambert held up a few gold pieces. "How much would it cost to buy that for an hour?"

She smiled coyly. "Depends on what you'd like me to do with it."

"I want you to talk," Lambert said. "Tell me about your boss. Lady Selyse."

Astrid sat back, looking at him skeptically. "What's your interest in her?"

"How much will it cost me to not have to answer that question?"

She pondered for a moment, dark brows knit. "A hundred crowns," she said finally.

"Eighty."

"Eighty-five," she shot back, and Lambert nodded. He dug in his pockets for the coin, and waited as she counted it. Apparently satisfied, she tucked the small pouch in between her breasts. "What do you want to know?"

"Tell me what you know about Selyse. About her past."

"Hmm." Astrid ran a hand through her curls. "Truth be told, not much. She hasn't been running this place for very long. It used to be called the Nigella. But then Lady Selyse came riding into town with an obscene amount of coin and bought the owner out. Luckily she kept most of us girls on. Said she didn't want to bother training new blood." She bit her lip. "She's happy to let Celandine run the inn. I don't think she cares much for this sort of thing. She simply saw an investment opportunity and took it."

"Have you spent much time with her?"

Astrid shook her head. "She doesn't show herself in public, much. I think something terrible must have happened to her in the past. Her face is dreadfully scarred—it's quite hideous, actually," she said, fluttering her fingers over the left half of her face to indicate the damage. "—Oh," she continued. "I didn't mean...scars can be quite handsome."

Lambert snorted. "Don't worry about it. Comes with the territory. I'm not paying you to flatter me." He leaned back and swilled a mouthful of the liquor she'd brought, grimacing at the bitter herbal taste on his tongue. It burned on its way down. "You know anything about a man named Jad Karadin? Dark hair, beard, eyes just like mine?"

"That name doesn't sound familiar," she said, pursing her cherry-red lips as she thought it over. "I do think I saw someone like that once, though. He arrived late, after closing, and demanded to speak to Lady Selyse. Is he her beau?"

"Somehow I doubt that," Lambert muttered. "What gave you that impression?"

"The letters," Astrid replied simply. "She's always trading correspondence with some rich gentleman out of Novigrad. I assumed she was keeping up some sort of affair, perhaps even blackmailing him."

Lambert raised an eyebrow. It seemed Selyse was indeed still in contact with Karadin, and likely even in business with him. "Thanks," he said, nodding. He dug in his pocket for another twenty crowns and passed them over.

"What are these for?"

"Your silence."

Astrid smiled impishly. "A lady never kisses and tells." She stood, her movements languid and precise. "Is there anything else you desire?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Lambert said. "You've been more than helpful."

She dipped her head in acknowledgment and sauntered away, pausing to blow him a kiss over her shoulder as she went.

Lambert took another gulp of the bitter herbal liquor, doing his best to ignore the taste. He had a few hours to wait yet before he could make his move. He sat back on the padded bench, immersing himself in the shadows, and waited for night to fall.

~~~~~~

Under the cover of darkness, Lambert crept up the stairs that led to the second story balcony of the brothel. A group of guards, bearing torches that shone dimly through the ever-present mist, rounded the corner as he reached the top. He pressed himself tight against the wall, willing his black armor to melt into the shadows. They passed by without looking up, one of them letting out a hearty guffaw and slapping the other's back at some bawdy joke. Lambert rolled his eyes.

When the torchlight finally faded, he climbed onto the balcony railing, balancing carefully on the narrow beam. He jumped, grabbing onto the railing of the third-story balcony above him, and pulled himself up, swinging his legs over. He smirked to himself. That had been too fucking easy.

He'd gathered from whispered chatter that these rooms belonged to the madame. Selyse spent most of her time here, hiding herself from the public eye. Lambert pulled the trophy knife from his belt and slid it between the panes of a large window. With a flick of his wrist, the latch snicked open and the window swung outward.

Lambert clambered through the opening and closed the window carefully behind him. He found himself in what appeared to be a dressing room—a large copper soaking tub sat to one side, partially hidden by an ornate screen. There was also a vanity, though its top was dusty and the mirror was cracked. Various jars of creams and glamours littered its surface; both of Lambert's medallions buzzed softly as he bent over to examine them. Magic.

Candlelight flickered and danced in the crack under the door to the next room. Lambert pushed it slowly open and slipped through, finding himself in the madame's main living quarters. The room was every bit as overdone and gaudy as the parlors downstairs. The multitude of draped hangings made it feel cave-like, somehow. A dark-haired woman sat facing away from Lambert at a squat mahogany desk, her interest trained on the stack of parchment in front of her.

"Hello, Selyse," Lambert said, crossing his arms.

She stiffened at the sound of his voice and turned, examining him with narrowed eyes. "Who the fuck are you?"

At the sight of her, the reason for the magical ointments and shattered mirror immediately became clear. The left half of her face was scarred beyond all recognition, the flesh twisted and marred by the heat of Aiden's Igni. The hair had burned away from that side of her head entirely—what remained was swept back and gathered in a high knot. She sneered at Lambert, a look of pure hatred on her face as her lips pulled back unevenly.

"Let's just say we had a mutual friend," Lambert replied, smirking. "Looks like he left you with quite the parting gift." He indicated the left half of his face.

She practically hissed at him. "That death was too clean for that son of a whore. My only regret was that I didn't have the chance to draw it out. To make him suffer. To dig my knives into his belly and watch him scream." She bared her teeth, fury turning her into something almost feral.

Rage welled up, white hot in Lambert's chest. "I'm sure you already know that I've come here to kill you." He took a step forward. "And mark my words—if you think his death was too clean, yours definitely won't be."

She scoffed. "You think I'm afraid? You think your petty threats frighten me? Look at me—I'm positively quaking in my boots."

"Tell me where Karadin is," Lambert spat.

Selyse threw back her head and laughed. "And why the fuck would I help you?"

"Because if you do, and I'm feeling nice, I might let you die quickly."

She shook her head, lips pulling tight an in uneven smile. "You really think I'd betray him? After all that we've been through? I would protect him to my dying day."

"Luckily for you it seems that day has come," Lambert said evenly.

Selyse scoffed. "As if I'd fall to the likes of you." She traced her hand delicately along the edge of the desk. "I've seen a witcher fight. I know...intimately how weak a man can be when faced with a superior woman."

Quick as a flash, she snatched up a knife that was set to one side of the desk and hurled it in Lambert's direction. He sidestepped the blade easily. It embedded itself in the wall directly behind where his head had been.

"Feel free to keep trying," Lambert said in a bored tone. "Not gonna do you any good though."

"I'll see you in hell," Selyse snarled, reaching under her skirt and pulling additional knives from the sheaths strapped to her thigh.

"Already there," he replied, drawing his steel sword.

Selyse moved like a cat, her movements fluid and threatening as she got to her feet and slowly advanced toward Lambert like she was stalking prey. He stood with his blade at the ready, waiting for her to make the first move.

The two locked eyes for a moment, rage burning between them like a fire, and then Selyse threw herself toward Lambert, her skirts whirling around her as she spun into an attack that almost mimicked Aiden's fighting style. Lambert flung out his sword to block and her knives clanged against the metal. He riposted with a high slash toward her face, which she ducked and countered with a vicious jab to his abdomen.

Lambert threw out his hand in the sign of Aard. Selyse skidded backward across the wooden floor, but managed to keep her footing. Behind her, a row of candles went out, their flames starved of air by the force of the blast.

Selyse sprinted back toward Lambert, knives poised and ready to tear into his flesh. He sidestepped the attack at the last possible moment, letting her momentum carry her past him, and slashed with his sword, the metal biting into the small of her back. She let out a scream of mixed pain and rage as she stumbled and fell to the ground.

Lambert raised his sword up and brought it down like a hammer, aiming to drive the blade through her heart. Selyse caught his blade between her knives and stopped it, her face contorted with fury as she stared into his eyes. 

"Did you really think it would be so easy?" she spat, knocking Lambert's sword to the side and jumping back to her feet. The ground where she'd laid was smeared with dark blood.

She threw herself into the fight, knives seemingly everywhere at once as she attacked Lambert with ferocity. He blocked what he could—she was fast, much faster than any human had a right to be—but failed to avoid them all. Metal bit into his skin, opening wounds on his shoulder, his thigh, his cheekbone—he cursed in annoyance—there were no openings for him to attack, just a seemingly unending barrage of knives and animal fury—

As she whirled around him, the two locked in a deadly dance of blood and steel, he found his opportunity. Grinning, he flung out his hand once more, this time in the sign of Igni.

Flames roared from his fingertips, a look of shock and horror crossing Selyse's face as they licked at the fabric of her dress. Fire raced across her skin as she shrieked, falling backward and dropping one of her knives. Lambert forced the stream of fire to continue, searing her flesh as she fell to the ground.

"No!" she screamed, hands clutching futilely at the unmarred half of her face to protect it from the flames.

Lambert's lips twisted into a wicked grin. "Even this is too good for you," he said, kicking the other knife from her hand.

Selyse gasped for air, her screams increasing in pitch as the fire consumed her flesh. The air was thick with the stench of burnt meat and singed hair. Lambert wrinkled his nose in disgust as he crouched down beside her, observing her death throes disinterestedly.

"If you'd ever felt even one shred of the suffering that I have," he whispered into her charred ear, "You'd know that this is merciful."

Her eyes rolled wildly, wide with fear, as she let out one final scream. The sound of it was harsh, guttural, torn from her vocal cords with such force that it took on an inhuman quality—and suddenly, gone. It ceased without warning as her eyes went blank, her desperate movements stilled, her heaving chest no longer sucking for air.

Lambert stood, stepping over her smoking form and sheathing his sword. Though Selyse had been unwilling to talk while she was alive, she could still be helpful to him in death.

The desk was littered with stacks of parchment. Registers, letters, records of business. Lambert rifled through them, eyes scanning for something of use. If Karadin had journeyed to Tretogor to meet with Selyse, there was a decent chance that they were still in contact somehow.

Many of the papers seemed to be records of political intelligence—whispers of plots and betrayals, information that the affected parties would most likely have paid handsomely to keep secret. Each entry was recorded next to a name. Lambert rolled his eyes. Blackmail. Not the most effective usage of whores, in his opinion, but a lucrative one. Selyse had had a head for this business.

Lambert dug through the drawers. Nothing of interest—spare ink, a silver hairbrush, a vial of what was presumably poison. He cursed under his breath. There was no way in hell he'd come all this way for nothing. There had to be a lead to Karadin somewhere.

A sense of something being off prickled at the back of his skull. He opened the top drawer again, comparing its depth to that of the one below it. Though they were the same size on the outside, the top drawer appeared to be much shallower.

He pulled out its contents, tossing them carelessly to the floor. The inkwell shattered, black fluid running along the grain of the floorboards until it met and mixed with the pool of Selyse's blood like a manifestation of the wickedness in her heart.

Lambert felt along the edges of the drawer bottom, his finger catching on a small notch. He lifted it to reveal a hidden compartment.

Inside were letters—dozens of them, all written on elegant stationary in the same spiky handwriting. Lambert selected one at random and read it.

_My dearest Selyse—_

_It is with regret that I write to inform you that I am to marry in two days' time. I do not love her, but a man in my position is expected to have a family, and I cannot afford to raise suspicions. I think it would be best if we did not see each other for a time._

_Regarding our business venture—the Pearl of the Coast will be making its way to Skellige next week. Hammond already has buyers for the merchandise you've so kindly collected. I shall deposit your share of the profits into your account at Vivaldi's Bank once all the goods have been sold. I would ask that next time you try to obtain more girls—if we can vary our stock, we stand to gain more customers. There is certainly a market of men who would pay a good deal to purchase a wife._

_Please do not respond to this letter. I shall contact you when the time is right._

_I remain yours,_

_Karadin._

Karadin. A jolt of adrenaline shot through Lambert as he read the name. He turned the letter over, fingers pressing against the broken wax seal. In a delicate, scrolling hand, the letterhead proclaimed _From the desk of Roland Treugger._

“Got you now, you son of a bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lambert is on a revenge rampage! This is one of my favorite chapters, and I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you all for your lovely comments. I love hearing from you!


	20. The Thread Unravels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta as always by the lovely [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion)!

Getting out of Redania took longer than Lambert anticipated. Radovid's armies were on the march, which meant the main roads were choked with throngs of soldiers bound for the southern front. Even if he hadn't been a prime target for lynching, the congestion alone would have extended what should have been a three-day journey into a week and a half.

Lambert chose to avoid the roads and travel as the crow flies instead, making his way to the southwest through fields and forests. It was worth the risk of encountering a few wolves or arachnomorphs to not have to sleep with one eye open.

To be fair, though, he wasn't sleeping well regardless of what was going on around him. Nightmares plagued his dreams at night—nothing solid, just an insidious blackness that twisted and changed form when he wasn't looking. In the morning he would awake feeling more exhausted than before he laid down, with bloodshot eyes and a bitter taste in his mouth. Occasionally he remembered snippets, but they were only scraps of the larger nightmares. A crossbow bolt. A broken sword. A witcher's eyes in the darkness.

He stopped caring about himself. He barely ate, and when he did the food was dry and tasteless. He slept as little as possible. He didn't even bother cleaning his swords. The steel was still crusted with Selyse's blood. It flaked off like dead skin when he drew the blade from its sheath.

He could hear Vesemir's voice chiding him in the back of his head. "A witcher must care for his blades. His blades are his livelihood. A witcher with a dull sword is a dead man walking."

"What the fuck do you know," Lambert muttered under his breath. "I'm still standing."

He pulled Aiden's letter from his pocket. The parchment was brittle and stiff; he had to take great care in unfolding it so that it didn't tear. The curling script of Aiden's writing had faded along the creases so that some words were only half-visible now.

He knew every last one of them by heart.

His eyes glided over the crumpled paper as if searching for some meaning that had yet to reveal itself to him. For something he'd missed. For something, anything new.

The message was the same as ever. The words stared back at him, refusing to give up any further clarity. On the corner of the page, the black ink was blurred and marred by a rust-colored stain. Lambert probed it with his fingertips, trying to recall the scent of the man whose blood had left that stain on the parchment.

He could no longer remember what Aiden smelled like. He could hardly remember his voice. It sounded wrong, distorted, through the filter of his memories. The details of his face changed and shifted, as if the harder Lambert tried to remember him, the thinner and more worn the memories became.

He was terrified. He was scared beyond belief of losing the last pieces of Aiden he had left. He stared into the fire, unmoving, as if the slightest disturbance might make them crumble like dust through his fingers.

 

~~~~~~

It took five days to reach Novigrad. Lambert rode into the city under the cover of darkness, blending in with the hooded figures that crawled from the shadows to conduct their unsavory business. These hours belonged to the damned. The thieves, the thugs, the murderers, the fisstech dealers—none of them looked twice at him. He was every bit as cursed as they were.

It was easier than Lambert expected to find information on Roland Truegger. Karadin hadn’t exactly kept a low profile since changing his name. He could just as easily have disappeared, dissolving into the city’s vast criminal underground, but he hadn’t. He had instead, according to the records kept by the Free City of Novigrad, gone into business as a merchant. Ships carrying his goods sailed from the harbor all the time. He raked in several hundred crowns per day, reinvesting his profits in more ships and a lavish estate in Gildorf.

Truegger was also apparently something of a philanthropist, sharing his newfound wealth with those less fortunate all over the city. He’d painted quite the picture of himself as a model citizen.

Lambert, of course, knew that it was a crock of steaming horse shit.

Tempted as he was to scale the walls of Karadin’s back garden under the cover of darkness and slit his throat while he was sleeping, Lambert eventually decided it was best to wait for Geralt to return before proceeding. Karadin had already shown that he like to fight dirty, and Lambert was painfully aware of how dangerous it could be for a lone witcher to confront such an enemy.

He made a fist against the rough, splintery wood of the table at the Nowhere Inn, fingernails biting into the flesh of his palm. It was his fault. It was all his fault. He should never have left Aiden alone. He should never have waited so long to go back. He should never have—

Someone slid into the seat opposite him, startling Lambert out of his thoughts. A familiar scarred face and a shock of white hair greeted his venomous gaze.

“What the hell took you?” he snapped.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Nice to see you, too.”

Lambert waited. Geralt sighed.

“Pretty likely Karadin lives in Novigrad. And he never severed ties with Hammond. They’re actually in business together.”

“Hmm.” Lambert leaned forward in his chair. “I learned something, too. He trades in live goods on the sly. Owns a ship called the Pearl of the Coast that runs between here and Skellige. Changed his name, too, to Roland Truegger, who officially is a respected Novigrad trader and philanthropist. He has a residence in Gildorf.” Lambert gestured vaguely toward the northern part of the city.

“Anything on Selyse?”

Lambert smirked, picturing her shrieking as she clutched at her charred face. “Well. Didn’t have you there to stand up for her.”

“I’m surprised you waited for me,” Geralt remarked. “Half expected you to go after Karadin yourself before I got back.”

“Better to do this once and do it right.” Lambert crossed his arms.

Geralt sighed. “Fine. Let’s go pay Karadin a visit. Get this over with.”

 

~~~~~~

The winding streets of Gildorf had changed little since Lambert had stalked the alp through them all those months ago. The witchers descended down a sharp hill toward the border with Silverton, hugging a wall that was choked with hanging vines.

Karadin's estate was lavish and yet inconspicuous—a townhouse built in the style of the finest that bordered Hierarch Square, but paneled in rich, dark wood instead of the gaudy golden plating that seemed to be popular amongst the wealthiest citizens. A garden stood to the side of the house, surrounded by a high wall of crumbling stone. An enormous oak tree rose above the top of the wall, its leaves rustling in the slight breeze.

Lambert eyed the flaking mortar that held the stones of the wall in place. There were several chinks in the structure—gaps that were just large enough to dig a toe into for a foothold. It was an easy enough ingress point.

"Think I know how to get in. I have a plan," Lambert muttered to Geralt.

"If your plan doesn't include dealing with an escort of armed guardsmen, best revise it." Geralt eyed the front door of the house, where three bored-looking Temple Guardsmen were standing watch. He raised an eyebrow as one of them broke off and approached the witchers.

Lambert's hand twitched toward his swords.

Geralt shook his head. "Calm now, let them start it."

Lambert stretched his fingers, ready to throw out the sign of Aard at a moment's notice. Geralt folded his arms as the guard approached, likely ready to spout off some sharp-tongued remark at any accusation of ill intent. The man's response, however, caught them both by surprise.

"You're expected. Come in." The man nodded at the two of them and turned to lead them into the house.

Lambert and Geralt shot each other bemused looks. Expected? In what context? Lambert wasn't sure if he should be preparing to fend off an attempt to slit his throat or to be served afternoon tea. Geralt shrugged and followed behind the guardsman. Lambert was close on his heels.

The guard led them through the lavishly furnished house and out a back door into the walled garden. In comparison to the rest of the estate, the garden was shoddy. No flowers had been planted—not even medicinal herbs. All that grew aside from the tree Lambert had seen from the street were tall patches of scraggly grass.

A small moon-faced boy knelt on the ground, playing with a wooden rocking-horse. At the sight of the witchers his eyes grew wide and he scrambled to his feet, running toward the tree to tug at the sleeve of the finely-dressed man who sat on a bench beneath it. The man looked up.

Lambert would have recognized that face anywhere. It was a face he'd seen more often than not in his nightmares. It was one he dwelt on near constantly while awake, searing every detail of it into his memory lest he forget. Black hair, slicked away from his face. A dark beard that did little to mask its wearer's hollow cheeks. Pale, almost grey skin. Yellow eyes—a witcher's eyes—completely devoid of emotion.

Karadin.

Rage welled up in Lambert's chest at the sight of him. At the sheer unfairness of it that this bastard should be sitting here alive, amidst all this finery, while Lambert had had to burn Aiden's broken body alone in the wilderness. At the cold remorselessness of the man's expression as he looked Lambert dead in the eyes. A rush of adrenaline shot through him, his stomach twisting in fury and anguish. Every muscle in his body was tense. He wanted to tear Karadin limb from limb. He wanted to flay him alive until he was a bloody wretch of a thing, eyeless and noseless, begging for death. He wanted to reach inside his chest, rip out his still-beating heart, and grind it into a gory pulp on the cobblestones beneath his boot while its bearer gasped for air, writhing on the ground like fish out of water.

Lambert clenched his teeth, fighting to stand still, to bide his time until the moment was right, even though every fiber of his being was screaming for blood.

The ghost of a smile crossed Karadin's face as he took in the sight of the two armed witchers who had come knocking on his door. "Make yourselves at home," he said, his voice smooth and dark like a pool of oil.

"He's a witcher," Geralt hissed in a warning tone.

"Very true," Karadin said smugly, standing. He gestured toward the moon-faced boy, who was now cowering behind a plain woman in a black dress. She sat on the ground beside a little girl, staring into the dirt morosely. "Allow me to introduce my wife, Laetitia, and my two little tots."

Lambert didn't take his eyes off Karadin. Lies, tricks, all of it. An elaborately constructed production designed to manipulate and deceive. He couldn't look away. If he did, Karadin might slip through his fingers. And then all of this would have been for naught.

Karadin sighed. "You know who I am, and I've heard of you. You've been asking many questions about me. That always draws my attention."

"What school did you come out of?" Geralt asked, eyeing the other witcher as if he were sizing him up.

"That of the Cat." Karadin smirked. "So few of us left." His eyes flicked to Lambert as he spoke.

Lambert bristled.

"Witchers can't have children."

"No, but they can have wards. Or take in a woman along with her children, embrace them as their own."

Geralt shrugged and then stepped to the side, gesturing at Lambert. "My friend needs to talk to you."

The mask of geniality melted from Karadin's face. "I see." He waved to the guardsmen who were standing idly by the garden wall. "Lads, take the children and Laetitia and leave us. Our guests wish to speak to me."

The guards rounded up Karadin's little family with more force than seemed necessary and ushered them inside as Karadin walked out toward the edge of the garden, staring out over the city. "Well?" he said, turning so that he was leaning back against the railing. "I'm all ears."

"Talk to him, Geralt," Lambert growled. "If I do, first word he says to me I'll lose it and throttle the fucker."

Geralt nodded. "Let's cut to the chase, Karadin. Remember Aiden? He was a witcher, murdered in Ellander. Guessing the killers were paid well."

Karadin sighed. "I remember him as I remember all the others—with the deepest regret."

Lambert shot a disbelieving glance at Geralt, willing him not to buy into Karadin's shit.

"And yet, Aiden was different in a way," Karadin continued. "Contrary to popular belief, we did not set out to kill him. We were forced to—when he attacked us."

Lambert's vision went black with rage. His hand was reaching for his sword before he even knew he was doing it—Geralt flung out an arm to stop him.

"Let him speak his piece. You have all the time in the world to get your revenge."

Lambert dropped his arm and settled for staring daggers at Karadin.

"What's your version of this story?" Geralt asked.

Karadin paused for a moment, gazing up into the verdant new leaves of the tree overhead. "Aiden had accepted a contract to lift the curse from a duke's daughter," he said simply. "He took the coin, bungled the job, and then ran once the girl had passed on."

"You lie," Lambert spat, his voice full of poison.

"We were not to kill him," Karadin said, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. "We were debt collectors. He'd spent the coin already, so we demanded his swords."

Lambert shook his head, his face contorting in fury.

"When he refused, tempers flared. Vienne, positioned as a sniper, lost her nerve. Hit Aiden square in the eye. Later she devised her own version of the story. To silence her guilt, I expect."

"I've heard enough," Geralt said gruffly.

Karadin nodded. "So what now?"

Geralt shook his head. "You know what, Karadin? Your remorse—it's feigned. Completely dishonest. You put on a good show, but I just don't believe you."

A wave of relief washed over Lambert at hearing Geralt's words. The older witcher had always had a softer heart than him. He was more easily caught up in the woes of others, manipulated into doing things for bad people. He was too trusting. Too willing to give people a second chance. For a moment Lambert had almost been afraid that Geralt would take Karadin's side. That he would put himself between them, robbing Lambert of his only chance to pay his debt to Aiden's memory.

Blood, it seemed, was thicker than water.

"Don't know why we even bothered with this chat," Lambert spat. "We came here to kill you."

Geralt put a hand on his shoulder. "Do what you want, Lambert. Your friend, your vengeance."

Lambert grinned wickedly, drawing his steel sword. "Been waiting a long time for this."

"And I don't aim to die!" Karadin cried in that oily voice of his. He drew the sword at his own belt and jumped back, putting distance between himself and Lambert.

Geralt stood back, leaning against the railing to observe as Lambert circled Karadin like a wolf stalking its prey.

"Did you really think you could avoid the consequences of what you did forever?" Lambert said, staring Karadin down. "Did you really think no one was going to come looking for you? Aiden had friends. People who loved him. And you cut him down over what—some feud? Blood spilled decades ago?" He tightened his grip on his sword, his voice rising in volume as he spoke until he was practically shouting. "You honestly think that I'd believe that sob story after I watched you put your sword through his heart with my own eyes?"

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're implying," Karadin replied, his eyes cold.

"It doesn't matter anymore. I loved Aiden and you took him from me. And now you're going to pay the price."

"So be it." Karadin flung out a hand, and flames surged toward Lambert as he drew the sign of Igni.

In the same instant, Lambert drew the sign of Quen. The flames impacted the magical shield, shattering it into an explosion of golden sparks that knocked Karadin backward. Lambert ran forward, spinning into a vicious attack that was immediately blocked by Karadin's sword. He parried high to catch the riposte, stopping Karadin's steel just inches from his head.

Their blades locked for a moment, Karadin close enough for Lambert to feel his breath on his face. Lambert kicked at the other witcher, planting his boot solidly on Karadin's chest and forcing him backward as he broke the blade lock and slashed hard for the whoreson's throat.

Karadin ducked under his blade, pirouetting lightly on his feet so that he was behind Lambert. He lunged for Lambert's back with his sword—Lambert dodged to the side, the blade missing him by a hair's breadth—he countered, aiming for Karadin's chest, but his sword met empty air—

The other witcher was fast, every bit as fast as Aiden had been. But he was out of practice, his movements ever so slightly telegraphed, his weight not quite equally distributed across his feet. And Lambert had fought beside Aiden for long enough to know that balance was the key to this whirling dance of death that was favored by the School of the Cat.

Karadin spun, landing on his back foot, sword raised to strike at Lambert, and Lambert quickly drew the sign of Aard. The blast that emanated from his outstretched hand struck Karadin hard in the chest. The witcher's eyes widened as he was knocked backward, his sword falling from his hand as he stumbled—

That was all the opening Lambert needed. With gritted teeth, he brought his sword up high and swung it with deadly force, the razor-sharp steel slicing cleanly through the bone and sinew of Karadin's neck.

Karadin's body hit the ground with a thud of finality, divided into two separate pieces. His golden eyes stared blankly up at Lambert as blood seeped steadily from his severed neck.

Lambert spat in the dead man's face. "Death by the sword was too good for you. I'll see you in hell."

Geralt, who had been watching the proceedings from the background, approached Lambert cautiously. "So it's over, then."

"Yeah." Lambert sheathed his bloody sword.

"Are you okay?"

"No." Of course he fucking wasn't.

Geralt laid a hand on Lambert's shoulder. "Want to talk about it?"

"Fuck no." Lambert shook his head.

"So what now?"

"I have no fucking idea," Lambert said grimly. "First, I'm going to go get drunk off my ass. After that, who knows."

Geralt made an expression of dismay. "Well, good luck with that." He sighed. "I have some things to deal with. I'm bound for Velen and then Kaer Morhen, assuming I find what I'm looking for at Crow Perch. So I guess this is where we part ways."

"Yeah." Lambert was still staring down at Karadin's severed head. The gob of spittle slowly slid down his waxen cheek. "Thanks for your help," he said, looking up. "I know I asked for a lot. I owe you a favor."

"I'll keep that in mind. Come on, let's get out of here before the guards come back."

Lambert nodded, following Geralt out the wooden gate that was set into the garden wall. When they reached the street, they embraced briefly before heading in opposite directions.

"See you around, I guess," Lambert said with a nod.

"So long, Lambert." Geralt strode off into the depths of the city, his distinctive white mane vanishing into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ding dong, the witch(er) is dead! I hope you enjoyed this arc. Only 5 more chapters left in the story!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's reached out and commented! I love all of you <3
> 
> (Once again, this chapter intersects the main game and has borrowed some elements in the interest of canon compliance. Credit where it's due to the lovely, talented writers at CDPR)


	21. What Lies Beneath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta by [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion)!

Lambert wasn't sure what he'd expected to happen once he finally killed Karadin. Absolution, perhaps? A reprieve from the guilt that choked his thoughts with every breath? In a way, a part of him hadn't expected to survive the confrontation. And perhaps he hadn't wanted to. His task complete, he was left with nothing.

He'd taken no time to grieve, save the hours spent holding vigil over Aiden's pyre. He'd been running nonstop ever since, riding across half the continent, tracking down those responsible. Now there was nowhere left to run. There was nothing left to do. His thoughts had finally caught up with him.

Perhaps absolution was too much to ask. But he had expected some sliver of relief, or at least a dulling of the pain that needled at his heart every time he thought of the last moment he'd seen Aiden alive. Some sense of a debt paid. Of a course changed.

Instead, there was only numbness and regret. The dead could not forgive, and further death had done nothing to atone for the sins of his past. There was a price to be paid for the things he'd done. Lambert was certain he'd be paying it for the rest of his life.

He'd left Novigrad as soon as possible, pausing only to replenish his supply of food and strong liquor. Everything he was feeling had been made worse by the being inside the city's walls, the grime that coated its bricks and cobblestones slowly seeping into his soul.

Lambert drank in the saddle, riding with no destination in particular, until he eventually found himself in Kaedwen. Though he hadn't consciously decided to do travel here, his feet had led him home. He rode northwest, giving the capital city of Ard Carraigh a wide berth, until he arrived at the foot of a familiar mountain pass. Despite being somewhat drunk, he navigated the traps and pitfalls of the gauntlet with ease. He knew every rock and shrub of the mountain at this point. He'd spent half his life here; first as a fledgling witcher, and then, decades later, helping to train Ciri.

He hoped fervently that Vesemir would be out hunting or shoring up some forgotten old structure when he arrived at the keep. He didn't want to answer the old man's questions right now. It wasn't like him to return to the castle before the next winter. And he wouldn't have, given the choice. But he couldn't think of anywhere else to go.

Lambert's horse whinnied cheerfully as they forded the shallow river that ran across the road. The water was clear, the sky cloudless. Though the mountains in the distance were capped with snow, the breeze was almost balmy.

And yet, Lambert couldn't bring himself to appreciate the view. Everything seemed devoid of color. The food he ate was tasteless. The vodka he drank might as well have been water for all the good it did.

The sound of his horse's hooves plodding across the drawbridge echoed back from the stone walls of the keep. To Lambert's surprise, the small stable already had two horses in it—Vesemir's bay, and Eskel's pitch black Kaedweni. Misery loved company, he supposed. He slipped from the saddle and made sure there were plenty of oats for his horse, patting it affectionately on the nose. He'd put it through a lot in the last few weeks. It snorted and promptly buried its head in the trough.

Lambert felt rather than heard the low rumble of Eskel's voice as he pushed open the heavy oak doors of the keep. The other witcher was standing by a low table just inside, puzzling over the putrid remains of what looked to be a katakan. Lambert wrinkled his nose at the stench.

Eskel looked up at the sound of Lambert's approaching footsteps, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Not that I'm not happy to see you," he said by way of greeting, "But what the hell are you doing here, Lambert? Didn't expect you to set foot anywhere near Kaer Morhen until next winter."

"I, uh..." Lambert fumbled for an excuse. "Ran into Geralt in Novigrad. He said he was headed this way. Thought I might be able to help out."

Eskel nodded. "Vesemir says they managed to track down Yennefer a few weeks ago. Ciri's back, did you hear?"

Lambert shook his head. "No. Didn't say a damn thing to me about her."

"Apparently Emhyr var Emreis himself hired Geralt to track her down. The Wild Hunt is chasing her. She's in a lot of trouble."

"Shit," Lambert hissed through his teeth. "So what now?"

Eskel shrugged. "Guess we'll find out when Geralt gets back." He shot Lambert a sidelong glance. "You look like hell."

"Fuck off. It was a long ride."

Eskel's eyes were too knowing. It felt like he could see into Lambert's soul. And maybe that was true, in a way. Ever since he'd been small, Eskel had been the one who understood Lambert the best. In that quiet, considered way of his, he always seemed to know when something was wrong. There had been far too many nights where Eskel had materialized beside Lambert just as his thoughts were at their darkest, there to offer a comforting presence as ice and wind howled outside the thick stone walls of the keep.

"I'm fine," Lambert snapped. It was clear from Eskel's expression that he understood something had happened. The last fucking thing Lambert wanted to do was to talk about it, though.

Eskel turned back to his katakan carcass. "Think there might still be some stew on the fire, if you're hungry."

"Did you make it, or did Vesemir?"

"Vesemir."

Lambert shook his head. "I'll pass, then. The oats I fed the horses probably taste better than that."

As he stalked off to drop his gear by his cot, he could feel Eskel's eyes boring into the back of his head.

~~~~~~

The days passed slowly. Aside from a curt greeting, Vesemir mostly left Lambert to his own devices. The old man was still working his fingers to the bone trying to patch up the castle. Lambert was fairly certain that the main keep was more scaffolding than stone at this point.

Lambert kept to himself. Occasionally he hunted, returning to the castle with a few rabbits hanging from his trophy hook or a doe slung over the back of his horse. He cooked, more because it killed the time than anything else, which Eskel seemed to be thankful for. All of them had suffered through more than enough of Vesemir's cooking.

He continued to have problems with his still. The patch work he'd done on it over the winter hadn't held, and it always seemed to leak more alcohol than it produced. He bottled what little vodka he managed to salvage and climbed high up the outer walls with it, settling in a forgotten perch high above the lower courtyard. He sat on the mossy and crumbling stone, his legs dangling out over the void, and drank deeply as he stared out at the setting sun.

Aiden’s letter was in his pocket, as always. Lambert pulled it out and unfolded it in the dying light, as had become a ritual for him over the last few weeks. It centered him. For an instant, only an instant, he could almost imagine Aiden’s voice as he read the words he’d already memorized. Almost.

He’d really thought that _something_ would change after Karadin was dead. It would have been ludicrous to think that killing him would have somehow brought Aiden back, and yet...and yet he found himself profoundly disappointed. 

Nothing had changed. Not a damn thing. Driving his sword through Karadin’s neck might have felt satisfying in the moment, but when the dust settled he was left with nothing but poison and bitter tears. 

“What did you _want_ me to do, Aiden?” Lambert whispered into the night breeze. It snatched the words from his lips and carried them away, returning no reply. 

“What the hell am I supposed to do without you? I did...I did _everything_ right. I did everything that I could to make things right between us. So why do I feel so…” he trailed off, raising the vodka bottle to his lips and taking a deep draught. 

“You never said it,” he said, his voice rising in volume. “Not even in your letter. You never said you loved me.” He made a fist involuntarily, anger rising like bile in his throat. The parchment crumpled in his squeezing fingers and he froze. 

He’d taken such care to preserve it, though he’d traveled halfway across the continent and slain half a dozen men with it tucked safely in his pocket. And now, in a fit of drunken anger, he’d damaged it. Damaged the last piece of Aiden he had left. 

And it had felt...good. Lambert wanted to hurt something. He wanted to hurt Aiden, really. Wanted to make him responsible for the situation he now found himself in. He hesitated for a moment, and then crumpled the parchment into a small mangled ball in his hands. He took a deep, shaking breath, looking out over the darkening courtyard, and threw it off the wall as hard as he could. 

It didn’t feel as good as he’d thought it would. In fact, as he raised the bottle and drained the last of the vodka, a wave of panic washed over Lambert. The last words. The final thing Aiden had ever said to him. And he’d thrown it away because he was _angry_. And to top it all off, it hadn’t helped a bit.

Lambert cursed vehemently to himself as he scrambled down the ladder into the courtyard, scouring every dark and dusty corner for what he’d so foolishly let slip through his fingers. Just when he was about to lose hope, he found it—crumpled, stained now with dirt as well as blood, and damp from having fallen half in a puddle. An immense sense of guilt permeated him as he gently smoothed the parchment, trying desperately to press it flat and stop the ink from bleeding. 

There was nothing to be done. It was ruined now, just as he was. He clutched it to his heart with shaking fingers as one by one the torches lining the outer walls sputtered to life below.

~~~~~~

"Want to spar?" Eskel asked one foggy morning as Lambert poked listlessly at his bowl of porridge. It had seemed appealing while he was cooking it, but once the food was in front of him he found he had no appetite for it.

"What?" Lambert looked up, pulling himself out of his thoughts.

"Picked up a new sword off a smith in Mahakam earlier in the spring. Thought I might test it out." Eskel's scarred lips twisted in an amiable smile.

Lambert sighed. "Sure, I guess." He pushed the wooden bowl away across the table. "I'm not hungry anyway."

The witchers made their way to an open area in the upper courtyard, somewhere their fighting wouldn't spook the horses. Eskel grinned as he drew his steel blade. It was a masterpiece of swordsmithing, its finely-wrought grip inlaid with runes.

"Signs or no signs?" Eskel called out.

Lambert thought for minute. "Signs, I guess."

"I'll try to take it easy on you," Eskel teased.

"Shut up, old-timer," Lambert said affably, drawing his own blade.

The two circled each other, looking for openings. Eskel was the first to strike, pirouetting and aiming his sword directly for Lambert's chest. Lambert ducked the blow and responded by drawing the sign of Igni, driving fire toward Eskel's grinning face—Eskel shielded himself with Quen, the golden bubble shattering in a shower of sparks as Lambert brought his blade down on top of it—Eskel attacked to Lambert's left—Lambert parried and riposted to Eskel's right—

Somewhere in the midst of the fighting, Lambert found himself smiling. It felt good to fight alongside his brother this way. It felt good to swing his sword for a purpose other than killing.

Eskel charged at Lambert. Lambert drew the sign of Aard, catching Eskel in the chest and throwing him backward. Eskel rolled and landed on his feet, immediately spinning and slashing toward Lambert's neck. Lambert dodged backward—

A loud boom sounded out nearby, and both witchers froze as their medallions hummed against their chests. Magic?

Lambert and Eskel made eye contact, nodded, and simultaneously jogged off to investigate the source of the disturbance, swords still at the ready.

They needn’t have bothered. Before they had even reached the gate to the outer keep, the strong scent of lilac and gooseberries prickled at Lambert’s nose.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Lambert said as they rounded the corner and came face-to-face with Yennefer. She looked much the same as she had the last time Lambert had seen her—her black curls spilled down over the shoulders of her signature black-and-white dress. A choker with a star composed of diamonds was tied around her neck. Her violet eyes gleamed in the center of her haughty face.

“Delighted to see you too, Lambert, as always,” she replied, her voice positively dripping with sarcasm. “Hello, Eskel.”

“Hey, Yen.”

“Didn’t answer my question,” Lambert said, folding his arms.

“Nor do I intend to. Take me to Vesemir, if you’d be so kind.”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Lambert replied defiantly. “Tell us what’s going on first.”

Yennefer sighed in exasperation. “Geralt mentioned he ran into you in Novigrad?”

“Yeah. And?”

“And surely he saw fit to tell you that he was on his way here and that it was related to a delicate matter that concerns Ciri. That is all I shall say about it for the moment. Now tell me where I can find Vesemir.”

“I’ll take you to him,” Eskel said, insinuating himself between the headstrong sorceress and bristling witcher. “Provided you paint us the rest of the picture later.”

“Of course.” Yennefer brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “Shall we?”

~~~~~~

Yennefer stood with her hands on her hips in the great hall, in the center of the witchers. Lambert sat on a bench nearby, while Eskel leaned casually back against a bookshelf. Vesemir stood opposite her, arms folded, regarding her with a guarded expression.

“Surely by now you’ve pieced together what we must do?” Yennefer said, glancing at each of their faces.

“It’s a lot to take in, Yen,” Eskel replied, rubbing absently at his cheek.

She sighed. “I know. And I know I’m asking a lot of you. Of all of you. But we all love Ciri and, and we shall do what we must to protect her.”

“So Geralt is off somewhere in Velen collecting this…thing and bringing it back here?” Lambert said.

“Correct. He should be here in two days.”

“And what do you propose we do once it’s here?”

Yennefer’s eyes flashed at the challenge in Lambert’s voice. “We shall lift the curse. I believe I can do it, but I need help. Eskel—I need you to collect some forktail spinal fluid for me. I believe I saw one circling in the distance when I arrived. Lambert—” she pulled an ornate golden box seemingly from nowhere. “Go to the Circle of Elements and fortify this phylactery with power. We’re going to need—”

Vesemir held up a hand. “Yennefer, Geralt has always held you in high esteem, and we all appreciate the things you’ve done for Ciri. But last I checked, this was still Kaer Morhen and I am still in charge. I won’t have you ordering us around like brainless squires.”

“Treat it as a request, then,” Yennefer replied, placing the phylactery on the table beside Lambert. “But I still need these things if we’re to have any hope of undoing the curse on Uma.”

Vesemir sighed. “Very well.”

“I’ll head out now,” Eskel said, stretching. “Forktail nest is on the opposite end of the valley. Might take a couple of days. With any luck I’ll be back before Geralt gets here, though.”

Yennefer nodded. “Lambert?”

“Just take a stroll over to the Circle of Elements and fill up the box,” Lambert said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “That’ll be easy.”

“If it were easy,” Yennefer replied, eyes narrowed, “I would have done it myself already.”

“Just do as she says,” Vesemir muttered wearily. “Or she’ll make us all miserable.”

“Fine.” Lambert took the phylactery and pocketed it.

“Now—is there a place for me to put my things?” A look of disdain wrinkled Yennefer’s face as her eyes passed over the line of cots in the corner. “Preferably somewhere private.”

“There’s a guest room in one of the towers,” Vesemir said. “I’ll show you—”

“Thank you, I’m quite certain I’ll be able to find it myself,” Yennefer interrupted.

Vesemir shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s time I got back to work.”

Without another word, he vanished into the depths of the fortress, presumably on his way back to whatever crumbling wall he’d been patching when Eskel had found him.

“Well?” Yennefer said to the remaining witchers, one eyebrow raised. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

~~~~~~

Lambert stood by idly while Eskel adjusted the saddle on his horse. "Sure you don't want a hand with the forktail?" he asked, more because he didn't want to be stuck in the keep with Yennefer and Vesemir than because he wanted to help.

Eskel smiled and shook his head. "Nah. It's a pretty small one. Shouldn't give me too much trouble. Besides—" he bent down and scratched the head of the goat that stood beside him. "I think I've got all the company I can handle." He tied the goat's lead rope to the saddle. "Try not to let Vesemir and Yen tear each other limb from limb while I'm gone."

"I can't make any promises," Lambert remarked. "Did you see his face? Think she actually managed to get under his skin—"

They were interrupted by a massive crash and the sound of splintering wood.

"What the fuck?" Lambert said, drawing his sword. He and Eskel raced back to the upper courtyard to find the nearly unrecognizable remains of what had once been the luxurious guest bed strewn across the ground. Yennefer was just visible in the window of the high tower it had been thrown from, a satisfied expression on her face.

"What the hell, Yen?" Lambert shouted up at her. "You decide to do some remodeling?"

"Yes, in fact, I have." She crossed her arms.

"Do us a fucking favor and don't destroy any more of the furniture? Place is miserable enough as is. At least Merigold never—"

"Lambert, hold your tongue or I shall pluck it out!" Yennefer said coldly, and vanished.

Eskel glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. "Yeah. This is going great." He clapped Lambert on the shoulder. "Have fun holding down the fort. I'll see you in a couple of days."

Lambert stared up at the empty window in disbelief. "Yeah. See you."

~~~~~~

By the time Geralt finally rode into the valley two days later, Lambert could have cut the tension in the keep with his sword. Yennefer hardly emerged from her tower room. Explosions and vehement cursing occasionally echoed down the stairs, but both Lambert and Vesemir had the good sense not to investigate more closely.

Eskel had yet to return from his forktail hunt. Vesemir occupied his time patching walls and shooting disapproving glances at whichever of Yennefer and Lambert happened to be closer to him at any given time.

Lambert had yet to make his pilgrimage to the Circle of Elements. As far as he was concerned, it could wait. He'd barely survived the journey the first time. He wasn't eager to repeat the experience.

Instead, he busied himself with alchemy, both the potion-making and vodka-distilling varieties. By the time Roach's familiar whinny sounded from the lower courtyard, he'd produced several crates of dimeritium bombs and a few bottles of passable liquor.

Lambert was sitting on the floor underneath his still, patching yet another leak, when Geralt entered the castle. He cursed vehemently at the copper kettle and sat up as the other witcher approached.

"Greetings, Lambert."

"Hey, Geralt." Lambert wiped his hands on a rag. "Guessing you found what you were looking for?"

Geralt nodded, and gestured behind him to where Vesemir stood just inside the door, leading what was, without question, the ugliest fucking thing Lambert had ever seen by the hand into the keep.

"What the fuck is that?" he asked incredulously, eyeing the creature. It was small—perhaps knee-height next to a full-sized man. Its skin was pale and covered with angry red boils. Its arms were long and uneven in length. Above its cleft lip were a tiny flat nose and two mismatched eyes—one enormous and glassy, one beady and small. The thing babbled an incessant stream of gibberish in a distressed tone. It looked like it was in pain.

"That," Geralt replied. "Is Uma. He's the reason Yen is here, and he's the key to finding Ciri."

"Great," Lambert said darkly.

"I know it's not ideal." Geralt rubbed his temple. "But it's all we've got right now." He nodded at the still. "What's this? Brewing potions?"

"No. Booze. From potato peels."

"For my welcome back feast?"

Lambert snorted. "Actually, more like my farewell feast. Haven't heard? Madame sorceress has requested that I fortify the phylactery with power from the circle of elements. Says it's the key to lifting the curse from that monstrosity of yours."

Geralt narrowed his eyes. "You do realize that monstrosity, as you put it, might be Ciri?"

"Yeah. I get it. Still a monstrosity." Lambert folded his arms and squinted at the beast, which was doing its level best to demolish a stack of books. He decided that it looked like a botchling mixed with a grave hag. He grimaced.

"You mind showing a bit of sympathy?" Geralt said reproachfully.

Lambert shook his head. "I call 'em like I see 'em. That's how I am."

"Irritating, you mean?"

Lambert snorted and gave the still another solid thump. "Thought you liked people with bitchy streaks."

"So long as they're women."

"Then you found the best of them," Lambert retorted. "But enough about that. The Circle of Elements awaits."

"You don't sound too thrilled about all this." Geralt raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not," Lambert said emphatically. "You know the trek to the Circle's no walk in the park. In more ways than one."

"Let me go with you, then,” Geralt offered, gesturing in the direction of the lake.

Lambert tried not to let his relief be too obvious in his expression. "Well," he said as if he were mulling the offer over seriously in his head. "I might have a little more spring in my step with the famous White Wolf by my side. Want to go now?"

Geralt shook his head. "In a bit. Yen'll murder me if I don't at least say hi to her before I go traipsing off across the valley. Besides—" he winced as a low boom echoed through the castle, followed by some violent and very imaginative cursing. Dust rained down from the ceiling onto the witchers' heads. "I should probably go deal with _that. _" His shoulders sagged with resignation.__

__"Godspeed," Lambert said, giving him a mock salute as he knelt back down to continue working on the leaking still. "You know where to find me when you're ready."_ _

__"Thanks," Geralt said sarcastically and trudged off, presumably to face Yennefer's wrath._ _

__Lambert didn't envy him. He hammered at the leaking seam of the still, cursing when he inevitably missed his target and smashed his thumbnail into a purple, bleeding mess. It didn't escape his notice that the creature Geralt had brought with him was observing him with something like interest from the other side of the hall.__

__~~~~~~_ _

__Lambert made a point of not bringing up their recent escapades in Novigrad during their journey across the lake, and mercifully Geralt had the tact not to attempt to broach the subject with him._ _  
Lambert was grateful. He didn’t want Geralt’s pity, sincere or otherwise. He was more than happy to just pretend things were normal.

__Though he wore a mask of bravado, once the darkness of the cave on the other side of the lake swallowed them up he couldn’t ignore the fact that his heart was racing inside his chest._ _

__Lambert hated caves. He’d come close enough to graze death with the tips of his fingers in more caves than he could count. And with the added threat of encountering Old Speartip, the odds weren’t exactly tipped in his favor._ _

__Hell, he would have died on the floor of that cave in Ellander, crushed into an unrecognizable mass of bone and gristle, if Aiden hadn’t—_ _

__Aiden._ _

__The pit dropped out of Lambert’s stomach. It suddenly felt like the irregular stone walls of the cavern were closing in on him. His breathing quickened, his chest felt tight. He stopped in his tracks, desperately trying to stay above the tide of anxiety that was dragging him under. A torrent of memories forced their way to the forefront of his mind, impossible to ignore, and he was powerless to stay out of their current—_ _

__Aiden looking over his shoulder, grinning at Lambert’s sour face. The horrible crunching noise Arnaud’s head had made as it was crushed under the ogre’s foot. Seeing the mortally wounded doppler take on Aiden’s lifeless form, everything Lambert feared made real and solid. Silver fragments twinkling in Aiden’s chestnut curls as they dragged themselves away from their encounter with the alp. The ugly, broken noise Aiden had made when the fiend gored him. Aiden’s warm, liquor-flushed face as he threw back his head and laughed. The look of pure anguish he’d worn the last time Lambert had seen him alive—_ _

__“Hey, you alright?”_ _

__Geralt’s voice broke the chain, and suddenly Lambert could surface, as if the memories had somehow lost their hold. “Fine,” he managed to get out. “I’m fine. Let’s keep moving.”_ _

__“I’ll give you a boost.” Geralt nodded to the next ledge, kneeling and interlacing his fingers. Lambert accepted the lift, and then reached down to help Geralt up._ _

__“Sooner we get this over with, the better,” Lambert said in resignation. “I never want to set foot in this place again.”_ _

__“Well, with any luck, we won’t have to. Exit's up ahead."_ _

__The witchers pushed on toward the other end of the cavern, clambering over ledges and drops in the near-darkness. As they neared their destination, both of Lambert's medallions began to vibrate subtly. The warning increased in intensity with every step he took. Lambert frowned grimly. That could only mean one thing._ _

__Old Speartip. Lambert clenched his teeth, remember his last encounter with the cyclops. It was idiotic, really, that they'd let it live this long. A monster was a monster, and this one in particular was steeped in the blood of decades of fledgling witchers. The remaining Wolves should have banded together and exterminated it a long damn time ago._ _

__"Stay quiet," Geralt breathed as they crept into the large final chamber of the cavern._ _

__Lambert could see Old Speartip in its center, curled up on the floor like an amorphous blob of clay. The cyclops snored loudly, the sound amplified tenfold by the walls of the cave. Lambert could feel it in his bones._ _

__"Should just take care of him now and save ourselves the trouble," Lambert whispered. "Sooner or later we're going to have to. If he was going to die of old age he'd have done us a favor and keeled over by now."_ _

__Geralt shook his head. "Not interested in fighting that thing. Not now, maybe not ever."_ _

__"Fought it once before," Lambert hissed. "We can do this. He's too strong for a handful of fledglings, but no match for two experienced witchers. This thing killed our brothers, Geralt. Don't tell me that doesn't piss you off."_ _

__"Doesn't matter," Geralt replied. "We've got more important things—"_ _

__It turned out that what Geralt thought wasn’t important, because at the sound of their hushed voices echoing throughout the cavern the loud rumbling snores abruptly ceased. The mass that was Old Speartip shifted and stretched as the cyclops stood, whipping its head in the direction of the witchers' voices and roaring._ _

__Lambert raised an eyebrow. "You were saying?"_ _

__Geralt groaned. "Shit."_ _

__The monster lumbered toward them, enormous footfalls making the ground shake beneath its feet. Lambert cast the sign of Quen on himself as he drew his silver sword. Spittle flew from the Old Speartip's bloated purple lips as it roared, charging toward them at full force._ _

__Lambert and Geralt dodged out of the way at the last possible moment, letting its momentum carry it past them. "Careful—he's strong!" Geralt shouted as Lambert ducked in to slash at the monster's thigh._ _

__"You think I don't know that?" Lambert yelled back, sinking his blade into thick, leathery flesh._ _

__The cyclops howled in pain, but the wound seemed to enrage it more than anything else. It swatted at Lambert, who threw himself out of the way of its massive fist. Geralt stepped in to fill the space he'd just been occupying, attacking with a vicious cut to the abdomen._ _

__His blade struck true. The honed silver cut cleanly through the layers of fat and muscle, blood pouring from the wound like a dark river. The cyclops swatted again, this time hitting Lambert, who had darted in to try to hamstring it. The shield of his Quen exploded in a flash of blinding golden sparks, redirecting the force of the attack back on its inflicter. Old Speartip stumbled back, clutching at its face._ _

__"Geralt! Finish it!" Lambert yelled._ _

__The other witcher ducked under the monster as it tripped and fell, kneeling with the pommel of his sword braced against the filthy cave floor. The cyclops's massive body came crashing down on top of him like a ton of bricks, its own weight dooming it to its fate. It let out a choked, gurgling noise as it impaled itself, Geralt's sword erupting from the back of its neck with a spray of arterial blood._ _

__When the dust settled, the only sound to be heard was the muffled panting of the two witchers as they dusted themselves off._ _

__"You okay?" Geralt asked, wiping his sword on Old Speartip's filthy rags._ _

__"Yeah. You?"_ _

__"Fine." Geralt sheathed his sword. "That sucked."_ _

__"No kidding." Lambert kicked the carcass roughly. "That's for Voltehre, you whoreson." He spat into the dirt._ _

__"Who's Voltehre?"_ _

__"Don't remember? Little guy—scar on his chin, right here." Lambert indicated the spot._ _

__Geralt nodded. "Oh yeah, I remember."_ _

__"Come on, let's keep moving," Lambert said, gesturing toward the exit.__

__~~~~~~_ _

__Even the dim light of the fading sun stung Lambert's eyes as he sat on the low stone wall, waiting for the phylactery to absorb the ambient elemental power. He squinted, avoiding looking at the searing glow of the torches that surrounded the shrine. He'd never liked taking Cat. He hated the way it robbed the world of color._ _  


__The witchers' medallions hummed in reaction to the raw power in the air, loud enough that they'd be audible even to a normal human standing several paces away. Lambert pressed his hand to his chest, to the place where Aiden's rested over his heart._ _

__Aiden would have loved Kaer Morhen Valley. Lambert thought of him as he stared out at the snow-peaked mountains that towered to the heavens. No matter how long he'd spent trying to get away from the castle, he couldn't deny the beauty of his surroundings. His heart twisted in his chest. He was never going to be able to share this with Aiden. Never going to take him fishing in his boat like he'd promised. Never going to spend a winter hidden away in one of the tower rooms, enjoying the bed Yennefer had so cruelly disposed of and a roaring fire. Any chance he'd had to make new memories, better memories here was gone._ _

__Lambert made a fist and clenched his teeth._ _

__“Is everything alright with you, Lambert?” Geralt was observing him with what looked like concern._ _

__“Fine. I’m fine.”_ _

__“Doesn’t seem like it.”_ _

__Lambert dug his fingernails into his palm. “Look, I—” he stopped himself, taking a deep breath to assuage the anger that had suddenly flared up at Geralt’s prodding. “I just don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”_ _

__“Fine.” Geralt stood. “Think it’s time to head back?”_ _

__Lambert nodded. “Phylactery should have absorbed enough power by now. Let’s go.”__

__~~~~~~_ _

__Lambert awoke through a hazy fog of alcohol, half-naked and sprawled over the edge of his cot. He tried to sit up and winced, groaning as he cradled his aching head._ _  


__The events of the previous night were a blur. He vaguely remembered dressing up in Yennefer’s clothes, though the reasoning for doing so was a mystery to him. He remembered dragging himself back to the main hall on his hands and knees. He was pretty sure he’d puked in Vesemir’s bonnet at some point during the festivities._ _

__He swung his legs out of bed and tried to stand, his stomach lurching and rolling in protest to the sudden shift in orientation. His head pounded as he sank to his knees in front of his trunk at the foot of his bed and dug through the contents, tossing aside spare armor and whetstones until his fingers closed on a large bottle of White Honey._ _

__Lambert took a large gulp, grimacing at the syrupy sweetness of it. He hated the way it coated his tongue. He wasn’t sure if the potion was better or worse than the taste of sour bile he’d woken up with._ _

__Eskel stirred from where he was lying face-down on his cot, the scars on his face criss-crossed with lines left by his pillow. He sat up blearily, grimacing. “What the hell happened last night?”_ _

__“Don’t ask me, I don’t remember either.” Lambert wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Here.” He tossed the bottle of White Honey to Eskel, who fumbled when he caught it but managed to keep the glass from hitting the floor._ _

__Eskel took a swig and grimaced, coughing. “Remind me never to drink with you two again.”_ _

__“You say that like you didn’t have fun,” Lambert replied weakly. “Where’s Geralt?”_ _

__Eskel nodded at the floor beside Geralt’s cot. The witcher was sprawled out on the cold flagstones, naked as the day he was born. Lambert snorted. “Looks like for once I’m not the problem child.”_ _

__“You’re always the problem child.” Eskel took another draught of the potion and winced. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Looks like Vesemir’s hemlock tea didn’t do the trick,” he remarked, pointing across the hall to where Uma was spinning in circles, every bit as ugly as he’d been the night before._ _

__“That’s a shame. I hate to admit it, but I was rooting for the old man. I don’t like what Yen has planned. Not one bit.”_ _

__“Me either,” Eskel replied. On the other side of the hall, Uma squeaked and fell over. Eskel sighed. “Come on, we might as well see what the others are up to.”_ _

__They found Vesemir dragging something up from some forgotten room deep under the castle. Lambert bristled immediately when he saw it—a heavy table made from wood and iron, with leather buckles placed to restrain a person’s arms and legs. He knew what it felt like intimately. He’d burned on that table for days._ _

__“What the fuck are you doing with that?” he said furiously._ _

__Vesemir sighed. “I thought Yennefer said she’d told you.”_ _

__“She did,” Eskel said. “Not too happy about it.”_ _

__“I’m not either. But desperate times call for desperate measures.” Vesemir gestured at the table. “Would you mind giving me a hand with this?”_ _

__“I’m not touching it.” Lambert folded his arms._ _

__“I’ll help.” Eskel moved to lift the other end of the table, helping Vesemir drag it across the hall._ _

__They positioned it next to an array of glass bottles and tubes on a metal stand, which was already waiting. The hairs on the back of Lambert’s neck stood up at the sight of it all._ _

__“This is a mistake,” he muttered, glaring at the equipment with a scowl on his face._ _

__Eskel shrugged. “Got any better ideas?”_ _

__Lambert shook his head._ _

__“Then we’ve just got to trust Yen.”_ _

__“Trust her? Eskel, are you fucking kidding me?”_ _

__“Keep your voice down,” Eskel said, nodding at Geralt’s passed out form on the floor nearby._ _

__"How do we know she's not going to just turn around and sell our secrets the second we're done with this?" Lambert hissed. "She's working for Emhyr var Emreis. I bet he'd jump at the opportunity to create his own private army of mutant soldiers."_ _

__"Emhyr's armies are already strong enough without adding witchers to them. I wouldn't worry about it."_ _

__Lambert sighed. "I hope you're right. Still think these secrets should have stay buried."_ _

__As they busied themselves making preparations for the task ahead, the squat metal table glared at Lambert from the shadows.__

__~~~~~~_ _

__The sun was low in the sky and the preparations were complete by the time Geralt finally stirred and put on his armor. Lambert looked away as Vesemir lifted Uma and placed him on the table, grinding his teeth. He remembered all too well the press of the cold iron bars into his back, the tightness of the rough leather bonds on his arms and legs. Uma screeched as Vesemir strapped him in._ _  


__"Is everything ready?" Geralt said groggily._ _

__"Yeah. Nice of sleeping beauty to join us," Lambert snapped back. "Can't hold your liquor like the rest of us?”_ _

__"You're the one that had us drinking potion spirit anyway." Geralt shot him a dirty glance._ _

__"Here," Lambert said, taking pity on him and passing over the bottle of White Honey. He'd been nursing sips from it all day. "You could probably use this."_ _

__"Thanks." Geralt took a large gulp and set it aside. "I see everyone's up and at 'em?"_ _

__"Yes," Vesemir replied. "I take it you had a...productive evening?"_ _

__"Yeah," Eskel cut in. "We talked about Uma. Until late."_ _

__Vesemir looked at the three of them reproachfully. "So I guess you didn't get a chance to see to the beams in the tower?"_ _

__Eskel looked away sheepishly. "...No. But we'll get to that, I promise. Right, Lambert?"_ _

__Lambert snorted. "Yeah, definitely. When we're done with our night of torture."_ _

__"You can give the boys a rap on their knuckles later," Yennefer said, materializing from somewhere deep in the bookshelves surrounding them. "Let's get to work."_ _

__Uma stared up at them from the table, his eyes wide with animal fear._ _

__"I take it you didn't have any luck last night, Vesemir?" Geralt asked, looking down at Uma in dismay._ _

__"Not much, but there was something," Vesemir replied. "I managed to induce a trance—hypnotized him, essentially. No effect at first, but as he dropped into deep lethargy, I heard something...a sigh, or a moan. And it wasn't Uma's voice."_ _

__"Um...Umama," the creature chimed in._ _

__"Alright. I just don't get how that helps us," Lambert said, throwing up his hands in exasperation._ _

__"Then keep silent," Yennefer said coldly. "Thank you, Vesemir. Alright, boys, we have work to do. "Geralt, make the potions—here are the formulae. Eskel, take a bottle of spirit—"_ _

__"Ugh, no," Eskel said, rubbing his head. "After last night, I—"_ _

__"And disinfect the tools," Yennefer finished. "Well? Chop-chop!"_ _

__It took the better part of an hour for Geralt to finish brewing the potions. Lambert kept out of the way, trying his best to ignore Uma's despondent babbling. He couldn't believe they were actually going to do this. There had been more than one shouting match the last time they'd discussed having a Trial, when Leo had reached the age where he could have received the mutagens. On several occasions, things has almost come to blows. Lambert had told Vesemir then that he would rather die than see another boy put through the torture of the Grasses._ _

__But then Uma wasn't really a man, was he? They weren't even sure if he was human, under all the boils and mottled skin. And there was a good chance that Ciri would die if they didn't.  
Lambert pressed his lips together grimly and waited, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. Yennefer glanced up and caught his gaze, shooting him a reproachful look in return. He bit back the venomous comment on the tip of his tongue._ _

__“Potions are done.” Geralt broke the silence, returning to the group with three vials of shimmering liquid._ _

__“Tools, too.” Eskel set them down gingerly on a nearby table._ _

__“Good.” Yennefer turned. “Vesemir—”_ _

__The old witcher handed over a small glass vial. “Hookweed extract to deaden the pain. I know. Done this before.” He crossed his arms. Lambert’s lip curled in disgust. He remembered all too well. And he knew the hookweed wasn’t going to do a damned thing._ _

__“Shall we begin?” Yennefer asked, a flicker of uncertainty visible for an instant beneath her determined facade._ _

__Geralt nodded, pouring the contents of the potion vials into the feeders and priming the tubing. Eskel connected the tubing to Uma’s veins, the creature squeaking in pain and fear when he cut  
into his arm to access the blood vessels._ _

__“Ready,” Geralt said after a moment._ _

__Yennefer took a deep breath, as if to steel herself. “Open the valves. It doesn’t matter in what order.”_ _

__There was a shrill squeak as Geralt opened the valve, the metal nearly rusted shut from years of disuse. Almost immediately, Uma began to scream. He thrashed and bucked against the restraints, eyes rolling wildly as his babbling rose in pitch. Lambert looked away. He couldn’t stand to watch._ _

__"Did the hookweed work?" Geralt asked, a note of concern apparent in his voice._ _

__"If it hadn't, the pain would have sent him into shock, killed him," Vesemir said grimly._ _

__"So, everything's going smoothly," Lambert spat from the shadows._ _

__"No...but it's within known norms," Vesemir replied. Lambert glared back at him._ _

__Yennefer bit her lip. "Administer the next potion, Geralt."_ _

__Another squeak as the next valve was opened, and Uma's screaming grew louder, his eyes bulging and face turning purple as he gasped for air. Eventually the sounds trailed off into pained gurgling._ _

__"I had hoped...I had hoped I would never have to watch this again." Vesemir pressed a hand to his temple, looking down at the cursed creature on the table._ _

__"Why'd you keep the table then?" Lambert said with vitriol, standing and walking away. He couldn't watch another second of this. He locked eyes with Vesemir as he passed him—the old man just gazed back at him sadly. There were years of pain behind his eyes. Pain that in no way made up for the things Lambert had been through._ _

__"Geralt, next potion," Yennefer said determinedly as Lambert strode off into the fortress. The sound of Uma's screams followed him, echoing off the stone walls and bouncing back at him from every direction._ _

__"Oesi, caefyn!" Yennefer's voice rang out through the great hall, taking on an inhuman quality as she spoke. Lambert's medallions vibrated hard in response to the magic. Uma's screams fell abruptly and conspicuously silent._ _

__As Lambert retreated into the depths of the castle, he overheard Geralt's low voice, posing a simple question._ _

__"What now?"__

__~~~~~~_ _

__Hours later, Lambert sat underneath his still, working on patching yet another leak. He was tempted to pitch the entire thing off the side of the mountain and start fresh, but he settled for giving it a solid kick that did nothing to fix the damage but made him feel a bit better._ _  


__He was pissed as hell and had no idea where to direct it. He'd had enough of arguing with Vesemir. Yennefer could squash him like a bug if she really wanted to, and Geralt would only come to her defense anyway. Eskel would just stand there like a brick wall and look back at him with that infuriatingly reasonable expression of his._ _

__He sat on the cold flagstones and pulled Aiden's medallion out of his shirt, holding it in his hand. It buzzed faintly against his skin. What would Aiden have thought of all this? Would he have stood beside Vesemir? Had he ever had to witness what the Trials did to those they were administered to? Had he ever really even understood why Lambert had never wanted this to happen again?_ _

__He stared at the engraved cat's head morosely. There were so many questions he'd never thought to ask Aiden. They'd never occurred to him, while he was alive. And now he'd never know. As far as he knew, every other person who'd known Aiden or spent time around him was dead, either by Lambert's hand or Aiden's own. The Cat School was as good as gone. And maybe that was for the best, considering the things they'd done. But Lambert didn't care about assassins or politics or any of that. He just wanted Aiden back. He had no taste or energy for anything else._ _

__The gentle vibration of the medallion in his hand suddenly increased to a violent frequency, the metal rattling hard against his palm. He stood, tucking it back into his shirt, and went to investigate._ _

__Uma's screaming had never really stopped, but it had at least grown quieter as his body slowly broke down. Now it was renewed in fervor, shrill and animal, as he writhed and twisted under Yennefer's hands._ _

__"Nevid, cyvir!" Yennefer shouted. "Caniatad...Nevid...Cyvir..." A black mist began to seep from Uma's skin, tendrils pulling toward her outstretched hands. "Coalle...Ariva...Aendir..."_ _

__Lambert stepped out of the shadows, approaching the table apprehensively. Yennefer's eyes narrowed in concentration. A shock wave of magic energy burst from Uma's tortured form, making her stumble back and the witchers shield their eyes. When it cleared, Uma lay motionless, his tiny broken body pale and limp against the restraints._ _

__Lambert glanced at the other witchers in disbelief, watching them go through the same stages of shock and horror that he was._ _

__"No!" Yennefer cried. “No, I won't let you!" She grabbed Uma by the shoulders, his head lolling limply on his neck as she shook him back and forth. She raised her arms and brought her clenched fists down hard on his chest, striking him repeatedly over the heart. There was no response. "Geralt—" she said urgently. "Yellow flask! In my satchel—"_ _

__Vesemir pushed her roughly aside. "Quiet. Listen!"_ _

__Though Uma's lips did not move, a voice came faintly from his lifeless form. It was unfamiliar, deep and resonant. "Coalle...Coalle...Caniatad..."_ _

__The spark renewed in Yennefer's eyes. "Nevid, cyvir!" she shouted, her voice thrumming with magic. "Coalle, coalle, caniatad!" Black mist poured from Uma's body, collecting in an enormous cloud above their heads. "Nevid! Ariva! Aendir!" Yennefer's raised arms shook with the effort of maintaining the spell. "Geralt!" she cried. "The phylactery! Open it!"_ _

__Geralt opened the box, and Yennefer threw her arms forward, directing the mist into it._ _

__"Caniatad! Taron Anede! Dis!" Geralt was pushed to his knees as the cursed energy flowed into the phylactery. The moment the last of it was inside, he slammed the lid shut._ _

__All fell silent._ _

__The creature on the table was no longer Uma. Instead it was a man—an elf, tall, with pale skin and esoteric tattoos that covered most of his chest and arms._ _

__Everyone looked at Geralt, whose expression was a mixture of confusion and recognition._ _

__"Avallac'h?"_ _

__"You know him?" Vesemir said incredulously._ _

__"Yes," Geralt said unsurely. "An elf—Aen Elle. A sage."_ _

__"Where is Ciri?" Yennefer demanded, leaning in close to the elf's face._ _

__"Hidden," he groaned. "In the Isle of Mists. But...it's not...she's not safe. The Hunt..."_ _

__"Where is it?" Geralt asked urgently._ _

__"Everywhere...and nowhere..." Every word seemed as if it caused the elf great pain._ _

__"Listen, sage," Lambert spat. "We didn't lift that curse to play riddles with you."_ _

__The elf raised a weak, trembling hand. "Praevein, arwein, cyrraen..." He opened his hand, and a ball of light floated gently from his fingertips. It came to rest hovering in front of Geralt's face. "In Skellige...Follow it...Into the mists. Hurry!"_ _

__Geralt clasped the magic firefly in his hands._ _

__Avallac'h turned his head to look at the witchers. "I tried to protect her...but the curse..." His voice fell off as he grimaced in pain. "The Hunt has not found the Isle as yet...'Tis is a matter of time. But if she leaves...They will detect her. At once."_ _

__Geralt straightened up. "I'm going to get Ciri."_ _

__"Hold up." Eskel held up a hand. "Don't you think you owe us some answers? How do you know this Avallac'h? What's Ciri been doing with him?"_ _

__"Yennefer can tell you. Just keep an eye on him. He's not a friend."_ _

__"Perhaps not, but Ciri apparently trusted him. We should at least take his words seriously," Vesemir replied. "You heard what he said. Take Ciri from that Isle of Mists and the Hunt will pick up her trail immediately. What then?"_ _

__Geralt frowned. "I don't know. What are your suggestions?"_ _

__"Ciri can't flee forever. One day she'll stumble. And she won't get a second chance." Vesemir smiled grimly. "Time we the hunted became the hunters. Geralt will find Ciri and bring her here...and the Hunt will follow."_ _

__Eskel started nodding slowly, immediately having picked up on what Vesemir was getting at._ _

__"They'll expect to catch us by surprise—and they'll be sorely disappointed."_ _

__Lambert found himself grinning. A good fight. Something worth fighting for. A sense of purpose falling into place._ _

__"We plan to fight them?" Yennefer said incredulously. "We five? In a crumbling castle?"_ _

__Vesemir shrugged. "Do we have a choice? Besides delaying the inevitable?"_ _

__"Pretty boy could try to round up a few others who know how to swing a sword," Lambert chimed in, nudging Geralt._ _

__Geralt nodded. "Fine. I'll get Ciri, and recruit some allies. Bring everyone here. I've got a few favors I can call in."_ _

__"The boys and I will consider how we should greet our uninvited guests," Vesemir said. Lambert nodded. This was one project of Vesemir's that he could actually get behind._ _

__There wasn't much time for idle chatter after that. Yennefer whisked Avallac'h away to one of the empty tower rooms, insisting that he'd die without proper magical treatment. Vesemir vanished as well, off to do his nightly walk of the outer walls lighting the torches and braziers. Knowing the old man, he was probably using the time to scheme._ _

__Lambert sat by the fire, sharpening his sword with a whetstone while he sifted through his thoughts. It was a habit he'd picked up from Aiden. By the time he finally set it aside, the edge was thin and sharp enough to split a hair._ _

__As Geralt departed, leaving the rest of them to fortify the fortress for their last stand, Lambert got the sense of something dark and dangerous lurking just over the next horizon._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this ended up being the longest chapter in the entire story! Once again, credit where it's due to CDPR for some intersectional scenes. I adore Yennefer and I was super excited to have her in this one :)
> 
> Only 4 chapters left!


	22. The Gathering Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion) for the beta!

Lambert's dreams were troubled once more.

His nightmares had decreased in frequency after he'd settled his score with Karadin, but they had never receded completely. Now they were back with a vengeance, as if something deep in his psyche were trying to warn him of something terrible. He got flashes, glimpses, nothing more. Ice and snow. Broken swords. A witcher's eyes in the darkness. A scream—

He always awoke before he could see the end, but he knew something big was coming. He could feel it in his bones. It was likely, really, that death would soon arrive to take them all. Even with reinforcements, Kaer Morhen would never stand up to a full-scale assault. The Salamandra assassins years ago had punched their way through the outer walls in minutes. These were wraiths, and powerful ones. They had an arsenal of magic and weapons available to them that were unknown in this world.

Lambert didn't like their chances.

Not that it really mattered. Even if they survived, managed to push off the Hunt somehow, what then? Was he supposed to get back on the Path, go back to his old life like nothing had happened? He didn’t have the stomach for it anymore. Every moment that he had to walk the Path alone was a reminder of everything he’d lost. It might as well end.

Vesemir had the witchers working themselves into the ground, rushing against the clock to patch walls and gather what weapons they could. There were hidden stashes all over the castle, as it turned out. Lambert spent the better part of two days digging out swords and armor from behind false walls and loose flagstones.

Yennefer had sequestered herself in the tower room with Avallac’h, tending to the damage the potions had done to his body as best she could while also grilling him for every scrap of information about Ciri he knew. It seemed the elf was more reticent than the sorceress would have liked, though. She could occasionally be seen stalking along the parapets, muttering to herself angrily as though she were having an argument with the empty air.

As Lambert was the best of the remaining witchers at alchemy, he took it upon himself to use his spare time to brew potions. Dimeritium bombs, Swallow, Thunderbolt; everything he could scrape together the ingredients for, he produced by the jug. He wasted the better part of an afternoon working on his still, but finally managed to stop up the leaks. He justified the time spent to Vesemir by saying that they needed the strong liquor to serve as a potion base, but his real reasoning was that if he was going to die he at least wanted to do it with a decent drink in his belly.

True to his word, Geralt had called in some favors and recruited allies for the coming storm. They slowly began to trickle in over the next several days—they were a ragtag bunch of misfits, to be sure, but their blades were welcome help for the battle ahead.

Zoltan Chivay, a dwarf and longtime friend of Geralt and Ciri, was the first to arrive. He came with a cart loaded high with barrels of explosive spirit. “Don’t worry, lad,” he muttered to Lambert as Vesemir helped him unload the cart. “I’ve several bottles of the good stuff hidden away for later. Daresay we could all use a good drink.” He winked.

Lambert decided that he liked Zoltan. The dwarf was amiable, realistic, and eager to swing an axe. He’d fought alongside the Scoia’tael in the past. He’d already proven himself to be a skilled and enthusiastic fighter a dozen times over, if his stories were anything to go by, and his presence improved the overall mood in the castle significantly.

A day or so later, Triss materialized in the great hall, stepping neatly out of the roiling black fire of a portal as Lambert sat sharpening his swords by the fire. “Nice to see you, Merigold,” he said, nodding.

“Lambert.” Triss smiled, padding over to join him. She sat on the table next to him, looking at him with gentle eyes. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Lambert answered through clenched teeth. “Yeah. I found it, all right.” He ran the whetstone along the edge of his blade with much more force than was necessary.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” she said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezing.

Lambert nodded his acknowledgment, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Where’s Yennefer?” she asked, glancing around the empty hall.

“Locked away in the tower with that elf friend of Ciri’s.” Lambert pointed to indicate the direction.

“Thanks.”

“Try not to claw each others’ eyes out,” Lambert called over his shoulder as she stalked off to find the other sorceress. Triss rolled her eyes.

 

~~~~~~

The rest of Geralt’s retinue arrived a few days later. Among them were two humans dressed in the Temerian blue stripes—a man and a woman, each bickering so incessantly with the other that at first Lambert assumed they were married. He was quickly corrected on that count when he caught Ves making eyes at Eskel. He smirked to himself, knowing that Eskel so oblivious that she might as well have been flirting with a brick wall.

Though he didn’t care much for Vernon Roche, Lambert could respect his dedication. It was impressive enough that the Temerians had made it through the gauntlet that was the pass leading to the fortress unscathed. They were clearly skilled and agile.

The Skelligans were the next to walk through the gate—a druid named Ermion, and Ciri’s cousin, Hjalmar an Craite. Both seemed to take any threat to Ciri as a personal offense and greeted the witchers warmly, as though their ties to the girl made them all family. Ermion and Vesemir were two of a kind, both relics of a time when battle had relied more on skill and valor than who could fight dirtiest. Lambert smirked upon seeing Vesemir crack a real, genuine smile, his face flushed with liquor as he sat beside Ermion by the fire in the great hall. It seemed the old man was capable of letting loose after all.

The last of the reinforcements arrived late, when the moon was high in the sky and those of them who were unable to sleep sat drinking by the fire. Lambert’s swig of homemade vodka was interrupted by a low rumble and the buzz of his medallions against his chest. Eskel, who had been dozing off in a chair across from him, started at the same time, meeting Lambert’s eyes with confusion.

“Thought everyone was here already.”

“So did I,” Lambert said, standing. The two of them cautiously padded toward the entrance, slinging their swordbelts over their shoulders.

The heavy oak doors swung open before they reached them, and in walked a woman. She was unmistakably a sorceress—Lambert had yet to meet a woman who dressed in such a fashion that wasn’t one. Her short blonde hair masked mischievous green eyes smudged meticulously with charcoal. She met Lambert’s eyes and smiled.

“I appreciate the welcoming party, boys, but I’m no threat to you.” She delicately adjusted her blouse. “Geralt sent me.”

“Who the fuck are you?” Lambert said with a challenge in his eyes.

“Keira Metz. Charmed, I’m sure,” she said, looking over the crumbling castle with a hint of disdain.

“Uh, nice to meet you,” Eskel managed. “I’m Eskel. The guy with the foot in his mouth is Lambert.” He nudged Lambert hard in the ribs with his elbow. “Come in—I’m sure you want to warm up.”

“Thank you,” she said with an easy smile. She stalked off toward the group of misfits clustered in the kitchen, her skirts swirling about her as she went.

“You know, you don’t have to be rude to every person you meet,” Eskel said reproachfully as they followed behind her.

Lambert shrugged. “I’m not rude. I’m direct. Saves a lot of time and bullshit.”

As Keira stepped into the light of the fire, Yennefer and Triss, who had emerged from their tower for once, stopped talking abruptly and looked up in shock. Lambert noted that of the two of them, Yennefer appeared less than pleased. Her brow immediately furrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line.

Triss pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “Keira?”

“Try not to look so thrilled to see me,” the sorceress said wryly.

Triss leapt up and threw her arms around the other woman. “I thought you were dead,” she said, pulling back from the embrace to examine Keira as if she wasn’t sure she was real. “I heard things…terrible things, after the Lodge was disbanded…”

“I’ve managed to survive thus far.” Keira brushed her hair away from her shoulder. “Yennefer—a pleasure, as always.”

Yennefer nodded, looking as if she wanted to swallow her tongue. “Thank you for coming,” she said finally. “I’m sure your help means a great deal to Geralt.”

Lambert rolled his eyes as he sat, throwing back another deep swig from his vodka bottle. It seemed the infamous White Wolf had gotten himself tangled up in yet another love triangle. When would he finally learn his lesson about toying with sorceresses? Lambert didn’t understand what Geralt saw in them. Sure, they were attractive—glamour and an endless font of magic tended to do that to a person. Eternally beautiful, forever young. But their haughtiness, that omnipresent holier-than-thou attitude, the way they ordered everyone else around with no regard for anything other than themselves—he couldn’t stand it.

Keira had taken a chair at the table with the other sorceresses, presumably discussing what she’d been through since the fall of the Lodge in a low voice. When Lambert finally passed out on his cot next to Eskel’s a few hours later, having inevitably failed in his attempt to drink himself to death, they were still huddled together in the dying light of the fire, their hushed whispers echoing through the hall.

 

~~~~~~

Their ragtag band of defenders was spending the day making further preparations for the battle to come. For some reason known only to him, Vesemir had assigned Lambert to getting the broken ballista that sat in the inner courtyard functional again. Lambert had been at it for hours, cursing the old man for remembering the thing existed and cursing himself for agreeing. Repairing it was way beyond his faculties. War engines weren't witchers' tools by trade. This one had been left behind by the enemy during a siege of the fortress centuries ago—those who had survived had dragged it back to the castle in the hopes of using it for defense, but from what Lambert could tell, it hadn't been fired since then.

Eskel sat nearby, kneeling serenely with his sword planted firmly in the ground in front of him. He rested his open hands on his lap, barely breathing as he meditated. Eskel did this a lot—retreating inward before a fight. He always said it helped him center himself. Lambert thought that was a crock of shit. He'd never done well with meditation. He didn't have the patience for it. Particularly when it was Vesemir rapping his knuckles for shifting too much during lessons.

The old man was somewhere in the outer keep, tending to the herd of horses that had arrived with Geralt's entourage. Yennefer paced the walls above, looking anxiously up at the sky. The air was warm and what few clouds were present were white and fluffy—there was no sign of the Hunt's approach as of yet. But that could change in an instant.

More than anything, Lambert wished Aiden were there. Somehow it felt as if things would have been alright with the other witcher by his side. They had only been two, true, but when they fought together they were a force to be reckoned with. Lambert could have taken on the entire Hunt with Aiden at his back. Alone, he felt off-balance. As though he were missing his sword-arm. Though he cared for Geralt and Eskel, they were a pale substitute for what he'd lost.

A loud crack like a lightning strike rang out over the castle, and Lambert suddenly smelled ozone as his medallions vibrated hard against his chest. Magic. Powerful magic—something like a portal, but nothing he'd ever felt before. Above him, Yennefer stopped pacing.

"Ciri!" she shrieked, running for the stairs and vanishing from view.

Lambert breathed a sigh of relief. Geralt had found her after all. She was safe, if only for the moment. Safe, and home.

Merigold came running past him a moment later, following close on Yennefer's footsteps to converge on the prodigal daughter. Lambert looked over his shoulder to see Eskel, still sitting calmly with his eyes closed, but with a smile on his scarred lips.

Several minutes later, Ciri emerged through the gate, linked arm-in-arm with Vesemir. She'd grown up since last Lambert had seen her. She was tall, her ashen hair longer than he'd ever seen it and tied back in a knot. The armor she wore faintly echoed the black and red of Lambert's own gambeson. Strapped to her back was a two-handed sword. He grinned. Even after all this time, she was still one of them.

Ciri glanced up from her conversation with Vesemir and her eyes widened upon seeing the other witchers. She dropped Vesemir's arm and ran to greet them. Lambert hardly had time to stand before she was upon him. She nearly knocked him over backward as she collided with him, throwing his arms around him.

Lambert pulled back and tousled her hair. "Nice to see you in one piece, brat."

She wrinkled her nose. "You're just as mean as ever."

"Wouldn't you be disappointed if I wasn't?" He grinned. She returned his smile, her eyes wide with relief and happiness.

Eskel stood patiently, awaiting his turn with an amused smile on his face. Ciri released Lambert and ran to him, jumping and throwing her arms around his neck. Eskel caught her, hugging her tightly and spinning her around as if she were still a small child.

"You've grown up, little wolf," he said, setting her down. "It's been too long."

"I missed you terribly.” She wiped a tear from her eye.

They were interrupted by the return of Triss and Yennefer, the two deep in conversation about what to do next. "Come, Ciri," Yennefer called as they strode past. "We've much to do."

"Sorry," Ciri said to Eskel and Lambert, shrugging. "I'd like to catch up later, if there's time."

"Of course." Eskel nodded. She smiled and darted off after the sorceresses. "She hasn't changed a bit," Eskel remarked to Lambert, sinking back to his knees.

"I'd be disappointed if she had," Lambert replied. He picked up his discarded mallet and hit the firing mechanism of the ballista hard with it. It sat there stubbornly, the bolt every bit as likely to fly as a water hag.

"Damn piece of junk," he swore, kicking it.

"Problems?" Geralt said as he came up the path, eyeing the shoddy wooden framework of the deteriorating siege engine.

"Thing's barely younger than Vesemir. I just can't get it to fling a bolt. They'll sooner appoint me Hierarch of Novigrad." Lambert whacked the other side of the mechanism with the mallet, but it still stubbornly refused to fire.

"Lambert, listen," Geralt said, shifting uncomfortably. "Once it starts...no playing hero, alright?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lambert looked at him incredulously.

"It means don't take unnecessary risks. You haven't seemed like yourself since the Karadin thing. And the Hunt is not to be trifled with."

"I get it," Lambert spat. "They're not run of the mill wraiths. Don't worry about me."

Whatever Geralt was mulling around in his head, he apparently thought better of it. "War council's starting soon," he said. "You gonna be there?"

"Sure." Lambert went back to abusing the ballista. "See you later."

 

~~~~~~

Several hours and a smashed thumbnail later, the ballista was no closer to working condition than it had been when Lambert had started. As the sun fell behind the mountains, leaving only a pale glow that washed over the fortress, Vesemir emerged from the keep.

"Conclave is beginning soon," he said to Eskel and Lambert. "You should go inside. I'm going to walk the walls, make sure the fires are lit. I'll join you when I'm done." He walked off to do his nightly patrol without waiting for a response.

Eskel stood, stretching, and then followed Lambert into the castle. Most of the others were already assembled, sitting in mismatched chairs around a table to one side of the great hall. Ciri sat at the foot, looking troubled. Lambert slid into the chair next to her.

"Holding up okay, kiddo?"

"What do you think?" she said, her eyes wild with anguish. "This, all of this—you're all in danger because of me. We shouldn't be doing this. I should just—"

"We're all here because we chose to be," Eskel said quietly from across the table. "You're family. We're not going to let anything happen to you."

Ciri nodded, forcing a wan smile. Vesemir and Geralt returned a few moments later. Vesemir took a seat at the table, and then gestured to Geralt. "You have the floor, Wolf."

Geralt looked around the room, taking time to make eye contact with each of them individually. "Thank you for coming," he said finally. "The Wild Hunt will be here soon. They're coming for Ciri. They want to take her. We're going to stop them. There aren't many of us, but I'd trust any of you with my life. Work together, and we'll defeat the Hunt."

Geralt gestured toward Yennefer. "When they attack, Yen will dome the fortress with a magic shield. They’ll be forced to land outside the walls."

"If they're dispersed out in the woods, we could hunt down small groups of riders," Lambert pitched.

Geralt nodded. "Got our first volunteer for the hunting party. I'm the second."

"The Hunt will try to penetrate the fortress through navigator portals," Yennefer said, crossing her legs. "I can do nothing against this kind of magic, so you'll need to find and close as many as you can while hunting in the woods."

"Lambert can make us Dimeritium bombs," Geralt said. "Remember the—"

"Already done." Lambert pointed at some crates stacked in the corner. "Made a few dozen while you were gone. Thought they might come in handy."

"Excellent," Yennefer said with an approving smile. "Yrden should work on the portals as well. I shall also give you each an amulet. Snap them in half and you'll become invisible, at least while you remain still or move slowly. Move abruptly, engage any foes, clash with them, and they will see you. Apart from that, they will still be able to hear you and smell you. If you come across a large unit, do not attack. Signal Triss, and she will provide support."

Triss nodded. "I'll look for your signal. As soon as I see it, I'll rain fire on the forest."

"Good." Geralt paced back and forth slowly in front of the gathering. "Remember, there's only a few of us. We have to help each other. Work together. If anything goes wrong and the Hunt puts us on the defensive, we pull back and make a stand at the front gates of the fortress. The inner courtyard is our last line of defense. If we don't stop them there, we're doomed." He stopped and faced the group. "What else do we have that we can use?"

Roche stepped forward. "Since you plan to ambush the Hunt in the woods, I can dig some trapping pits. Blue Stripes style."

"Meaning?" Vesemir said dubiously.

"Deep as the black abyss," Ves said with a mischievous smile. "Bottoms bristling with sharpened stakes."

"I brought this Mahakaman mix," Zoltan chimed in. "Flammable as bone-dry saltpeter and ploughin' sticks to anything. We fill some barrels, stack 'em in a narrow passage, and fire 'em up at an opportune moment."

The druid Ermion stepped forward as well. "Do you know we stand on a vast deposit of gas?" He gestured at the ground beneath their feet. "If need be, I could open cracks in the earth, create explosions. I would need to prepare, though."

Vesemir nodded approvingly. "There's also the laboratory, and the workshop."

"We've got limited resources and even less time," Eskel said. We ought to decide what kind of weaponry will be the most useful against the Hunt."

Vesemir scratched his beard. "Been wanting to fix that breach in the wall. But we'll need the same tools to clear the rubble from the armory."

"Rubble?" Geralt said with a raised eyebrow.

"Haven't you heard? Roof caved in a couple of years back. There's some excellent swords in there. Swords we could use."

"Filling in the breach seems just as important," Lambert said, shaking his head. "They come through there, siege will be over awfully quick."

"Shoring up our defenses seems like the best move. Let's focus on that."

"We don't have time to do much else," Vesemir warned.

"I know."

"Alright then. Everything settled?"

Geralt nodded. "Yes, settled. We don't have much time, so let's get to work." He stepped forward and planted his hands on the table. "Remember, Eredin can't get his hands on Ciri. That's most important."

Beside Lambert, Ciri's shoulders sagged. She stared down at her own clasped hands, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

Those who had been standing by observing converged on the table, poring over the map of the fortress to decide where each fighter and trap was going to be positioned. Ciri abruptly shoved her chair away from the table and stalked off into the darkness of the keep.

Whether the others noticed or not was unclear to Lambert. They were deep in discussion, focused on the battle ahead. His roles already clear, he quietly slipped away and followed.

 

~~~~~~

Lambert found Ciri in a forgotten corner halfway up one of the outer walls. It had once been a room of some sort, but its roof had long since collapsed away. It was a quiet spot, isolated from the rest of the fortress. No one would come looking here unless they knew it existed.

He could hear her sniffling before he even set foot on the bottom rung of the ladder. He sighed and slowly climbed up.

Ciri was sitting hunched over with her back against what was left of one mossy wall, her face pressed into her knees. She looked up when he approached. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her eyes red and puffy.

Lambert settled against the wall beside her, looking out over the darkened valley. "Nice spot," he said calmly.

She shot him an accusatory glance. "How did you find me?"

"Think you're the only one who knows about this place? I used to come here all the time when I was a kid. It was great for hiding from Vesemir's lectures."

Ciri snorted and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "I suppose I had no hope of hiding from a trained witcher, anyway."

"What can I say, I'm the best," Lambert said. "Why'd you run off?"

"It hardly seemed they needed me there," Ciri replied, staring down at her hands angrily. "They want me to stay inside and hide in the closet like some sort of...child. I'm not a baby anymore, Lambert! I can take care of myself. I _have_ taken care of myself! The places I've been—the things I've seen—you wouldn't believe half of it." She sighed. "Just...everyone is putting their lives on the line for me. Eredin is dangerous. He'll stop at nothing to get his hands on me. That's why I never came back. I didn't want to lead him here. To all of you."

"He'll have to kill every last one of us to get to you."

"And he very well may!" Ciri's voice rose in pitch. "You don't know him like I do, Lambert. I've seen the things he's done. The things he's capable of! I want to help! If it's my freedom that's at stake, I deserve to fight for it! What if you need me? What if something happens, and I'm cowering away in some tower like some sort of helpless damsel—"

"Look, I agree with you," Lambert said. "I think you should be able to fight, if that's what you want. But Geralt and Yennefer feel differently. And you know how hardheaded those two can be."

"It's not fair," she pouted. "All of this is happening because of me. And I haven't even been given the chance to speak for myself!"

"Speaking from experience," Lambert said, running a hand through his hair, "Opportunities don't often just drop into your lap. You've got to make them for yourself. You just have to wait until the time is right."

Ciri narrowed her eyes. "You sound like Vesemir," she said. "Wait for an opportunity, Ciri. Sit down and be quiet, Ciri. I'm sick of it!"

Lambert's temper flared. "I'm nothing like Vesemir."

"The lot of you all have heads as hard as rocks."

"Must run in the family then," he said snidely. "Don't forget, he raised you too." He stood, walking to the edge of the wall. "You should come back soon. Geralt's bound to worry if you're gone too long, and you know how he gets when he's worried."

He stepped onto the ladder and began to climb down. As he descended, he heard Ciri breathe a weary sigh.

 

~~~~~~

The night wore on with no sign of the Hunt. The air inside the fortress was thick with tension. Though the castle was more populated than Lambert had ever seen it, it was also as quiet as the grave. Save for their assigned tasks, none of their little army seemed particularly keen on talking. They'd all retreated inward, steeling themselves for what was to come.

Lambert had already done his part, gathering the potions and bombs he'd prepared in the time they'd been waiting for Geralt to return with Ciri. Vesemir had relieved him of the rest of the lab equipment, citing the desire to brew some potions of his own. Left with no task and some time to kill, he eventually ended up in the kitchen, cooking an enormous pot of stew for the team that was working their fingers to the bone to patch up Savolla’s breach.

He made soup the way his mother had always done it, greasing the pot with bacon fat and using it to fry what root vegetables he’d managed to scrape together from the larder. When they were brown and sizzling, he threw in a handful of black pepper and coarse salt scavenged from his potion supplies before filling the pot almost to the brim with clear spring water and dropping in the venison Eskel had brought back from hunting that morning. In a few hours, the meat would fall off the bones and the marrow would turn the water to rich broth. It certainly wasn’t the finest of Novigrad dining, but it was better than most of them had eaten in the past week. Besides, Lambert reasoned, what was the point of saving any of it for later? There was no guarantee that any of them would survive to need the supplies Vesemir was already stockpiling for next winter.

He sat by the fire and waited, sharpening his sword. He stared at the orange glint of the fire reflected in the the silver of the blade blankly, his thoughts a thousand miles away.

“I never took you witchers for chefs,” a polished voice remarked from behind him.

Lambert blinked, coming back to himself and looking over his shoulder to see Keira. “We’re not,” he replied. “Didn’t learn everything I know from Vesemir, despite what he’d have you believe.”

“Well, I’m certainly famished.” She sat neatly on a chair nearby, crossing her legs. “I believe I’ll wait with you, if you don’t mind.”

Lambert shrugged, resuming dragging the whetstone along his blade. “What’s your story, anyway?” he said after a few minutes of silence. “Seems you and Yen have some bad blood between you.”

“Oh, that?” Keira waved her hand. “Ancient history.” Her tone made it clear that there would be no further elaboration on the matter.

“Alright then,” Lambert said, setting his whetstone aside. “How’d you wind up here? Doesn’t seem like you exactly volunteered for this.”

“That,” she said with a sigh. “Is quite a long story indeed. Suffice it to say that I was about to do something incredibly foolish and Geralt talked me out of it. He invited me to come stay at the castle until things blew over with Radovid and the witch hunters. I accepted.” She examined her fingernails. “I suppose it was fortuitous for you that I should have arrived when I did. There may be no love lost between myself and Yennefer, but I do owe Geralt a favor. He’s saved my life twice now.”

“Twice?” Lambert raised an eyebrow.

“The first was a coincidence. During the coup at Thanedd I was thrown from a window. Geralt was so kind as to break my fall.”

Lambert snorted. “I guess sorceresses really do just fall into his lap.”

“I can’t speak for the others,” she replied haughtily, “But to my credit, it was entirely unintentional.”

Their banter was interrupted by the creak of the heavy front doors and the clamor of the work crew returning from the courtyard. They were so caked in grey rock dust and mortar that they looked like ghosts of their former selves.

“Dinner’s ready,” Lambert called to the haggard band of amateur masons. “Last meal for the damned.”

“Must you be so macabre?” Keira rolled her eyes.

Lambert shrugged. “It’s just how I am. Love it or leave it.” He stood, sheathing his sword. “I’m going to go dig up some bowls. We’re bound to have a few somewhere.”

As he went, he could feel her green eyes boring into his back.

 

~~~~~~

Lambert found Geralt alone, pacing back and forth in front of their time-faded map of the fortress. The chairs they'd used for the council meeting were still scattered about, their occupants absent as they had already taken their posts on the grounds for the coming battle.

"Can't help feeling we've overlooked something important," Geralt remarked as Lambert approached

Lambert shrugged. "Don't think about it. Nothing we can do to change things now, anyway. We're out of time."

"What's ready?"

"Haven't had much time to prepare, so not much, honestly."

Geralt leaned over, planting his hands on the table and staring at the map. "I'm exposing you all to danger. Unnecessarily.”

"Eh." Lambert shrugged again. "You worry too much. We might make it. And if we don’t, there won’t be anyone around to blame you anyway."

"Can't help but worry." Geralt rubbed his temple.

"We're all here because we chose to be. Don't waste your time fretting like a roosting hen. Remember what Vesemir always used to say?" Lambert deepened his voice, imitating the older witcher. " _A wolf is a hunter. And a hunter's eyes are always pointed forward_."

"Forgetting the most important part," Geralt replied. " _The hunter who fails to consider his surroundings will soon become the prey. _"__

"Got me there. She's one of us, though, Geralt. No way we'll let him take her."

Geralt nodded. "Thanks, Lambert. For everything."

"Don't mention it. I'll go saddle the horses. Come once you're ready to head into the woods." He turned and headed for the front door. "Oh, and you should talk to Ciri," he called back over his shoulder. "Fine mood she's in."

 

~~~~~~

  
Lambert's horse snorted and whinnied nervously as he fitted it with the saddle. Roach stood calmly nearby, gear already neatly in place. "Easy," he said, patting it on the nose. "Worst is yet to come."

He led the horses out of the courtyard, holding onto their leads tightly. As he crossed under the portcullis, the once-blue sky began to darken. Grey clouds of swirling mist rose over the woods below the fortress, seeping across the land and crawling up the mountains to blot out the sun.

With the darkness came cold. Cold that went straight to his bones, seeping into his joints and spiking his heart with ice. Tendrils of steam curled from the horses' nostrils as their breath froze in the frosty air.

"Shit," he muttered as his medallions began to hum. "Where the hell is Geralt?"

As if on cue, the white-haired witcher materialized by his side, an uncharacteristically grim expression on his face.

"See that?" Lambert said, gesturing out at the valley.

Geralt nodded. "It's starting. Woods—now!"

The two of them mounted and spurred their horses, galloping down the path into the gathering storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little late in the day posting this, I apologize. Time got away from me.  
> Only 3 chapters to go! If you're enjoying this please drop me a comment, I love hearing from you! <3
> 
> Also--I posted a smutty Lambert/Aiden offshoot of the story [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17620349) a couple days ago :)


	23. Tooth and Nail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major spoilers in this chapter for the Battle of Kaer Morhen.

The icy air bit Lambert’s skin and seared his throat as he and Geralt galloped down the path into the mist. His horse’s hooves thundered down on the frozen path. The wind was rising, howling in his ears and tearing at his armor as shards of ice scraped his flesh.

He shielded his face with an arm, squinting into the storm—he could hardly see an inch in front of his face—this was too much, it wasn’t going to work—

A low boom, and a wave of silver energy rushed past him. It came from behind, surging forward and enveloping them in a protective shield. The barrier hurtled onward past them into the woods, pushing back the mist as it went. The air thrummed with magic. The cold abated along with the storm, leaving the air chilly but bearable. Lambert looked over his shoulder—at the top of the fortress, in the epicenter of the domed shield, a black figure was almost eclipsed by an orb of white light. Yennefer. Lambert could only imagine the amount of power it took to maintain a construct of this size, let alone the physical cost.

The trees rose up to meet them as Lambert and Geralt made their way into the woods. They dismounted in a dark thicket, leaving their horses untied and free to run. Roach whinnied nervously. Geralt patted her nose. “Easy, girl. I’ll be back. I always am.” The horse snorted back at him. Geralt turned to Lambert. “Time to use Yen’s medallions.”

Lambert nodded and reached into his pocket, pulling out the palm-sized oval of brittle black stone Yennefer had given them. Together, the two of them snapped the medallions in half. The delicate runes inscribed into their surface glowed with violet light, and where the witchers had been standing, there was now empty air—only a slight shimmer remained where Geralt stood. Lambert’s eyes slid off it like a patch of oil.

“Gonna have to thank Yen when this is all over,” Lambert remarked. “That spell—really something. And the invisibility…” he looked down at the distorted air that was his arm.

“Hounds could still sniff you out, so don’t get too close,” Geralt said. “And you’ll be visible as soon as you start fighting. Remember that.”

Lambert nodded before remembering that Geralt couldn’t see him. “Got it.”

“Good work with these bombs, by the way.”

“Be precise. I’m out of dimeritium.” Lambert saw movement further into the trees—several warriors of the Hunt, dressed in black skeleton armor. “They’re here,” he whispered. “Time to say hello.”

Geralt held out an arm and stopped him. “Slow down. Element of surprise is key. Stay hidden, give Triss a chance to show them what she can do. Then we’ll hit ‘em.” He crouched, pulling Lambert down with him.

Almost before Geralt finished speaking, enormous orbs of fire rained down on the forest. They slammed into the ground, exploding where they landed in a conflagration of orange. The air rippled and cracked from the heat. When the blaze died down, all that remained of the Hunt was a black crater.

Lambert whistled through his teeth. “Next time you get the feeling I’m about to piss of Merigold, make sure and knock me upside the head.”

“Come on, let’s go,” Geralt muttered. Lambert followed the subtle crunch of frost beneath Geralt’s boots into the darkened woods.

They crept through the trees and across the shallow river. “Careful,” Lambert said as they made their way across the frozen ground. On all sides of them were pits, dark and deep, dug into the forest floor in such a way that they weren’t immediately visible until one was about to step into them.

“Roche’s pits,” Geralt said. “Couldn’t have asked for anything more perfect.”

“Are you kidding?” Lambert stepped cautiously around one. “We’re lucky we didn’t fall in.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

Lambert’s medallions, which had been vibrating softly in response the ambient magic since the arrival of the storm, suddenly buzzed hard against his chest. “Up ahead,” he hissed. 

Through the trees, Lambert could see more riders of the Hunt. The familiar thrum of a portal was audible even at distance. Unlike those used by the sorceresses, this one was spherical and ringed with ripples of blue energy. “Got this one?” he asked. “I’ll distract the hounds.”

“Got it.” A clink, and a dimeritium bomb sailed through the air, exploding directly at the base of the portal. It collapsed with a bright flash of green light.

Lambert drew his silver sword and crept into the clearing, trying to get as close as possible to the hounds before he gave up his position. He was almost within striking distance when one of them suddenly snarled, having caught his scent. It wheeled around, the spikes on its back glistening with frost.

“Fuck it,” Lambert said under his breath and swung his sword. Halfway through the attack, his body flickered back into visibility. His silver bit deep into the hound’s back, the creature howling in pain. It launched itself at him, claws scrabbling on the frozen earth. He kicked at it, planting his boot firmly on its chest and shoving it away. It fell on its back, legs writhing—he lunged forward and plunged his sword through its heart. It squealed and stopped moving.

He withdrew his blade and whirled to block the hound that was snapping at his flank. Its teeth gnashed on the metal of his sword, deep cuts opening up on either side of its mouth as it tried to chew through the blade to get to him. 

Lambert formed the sign of Igni and directed a jet of flames into its face, its flesh sizzling and melting in the heat. With his sword, he pushed back hard against the hound. The blade cut through its charred flesh like paper. The beast fell to the ground, its head an unrecognizable burnt and bloody mess.

Geralt was engaging the sole remaining rider who had emerged from the portal before they’d managed to close it. As Lambert watched, the rider ducked under Geralt’s blade, swinging his own sword up to strike at Geralt’s chest—

Geralt drew the sign of Aard, and threw him halfway across the clearing. The rider’s head smashed hard against a boulder, and he crumpled to the ground, motionless. 

“I hate portals,” Geralt muttered, sheathing his sword. His form flickered and then vanished as Yennefer’s spell took effect once more.

“Come on, I think there’s another one up ahead,” Lambert said. A coat of rime encrusted the underbrush he crept through, as thick as the dead of winter. The portal was just visible through the trees up ahead, a small party of riders having just emerged from it. Lambert pulled a dimeritium bomb from his belt and lobbed it at the portal’s base—like the first, it collapsed into itself with a flash of green light.

The riders immediately drew their blades, scanning their surroundings for the source of the disturbance. Lambert zeroed in on the single hound that accompanied them—focusing hard, he held up a hand and drew the sign of Axii. Stumbling and shaking its head as the hex took effect, the hound began snarling and prowled toward its masters. It leapt at the nearest rider, sinking its fangs into the plating of his armor.

The riders turned on the hound, kicking and slashing at it with their swords until it released its grip on their compatriot. As it fell to the ground, dazed, one of them raised up a war hammer and brought it crashing down on the hound's head.

"Now!" Lambert whispered, and charged into the fray, thrusting his silver sword through the back of the lamed rider. It erupted from his chest as he let out a gurgling scream. Lambert withdrew his blade and the rider crumpled to the ground. Geralt flickered back into existence as Lambert whirled to engage the next warrior, attacking the same foe from the other side. Their blades bit into him at the same instant, slicing one of his arms off neatly at the shoulder and one of his legs at the hip. He fell to the ground, a convulsing mess. His blood steamed as it spurted from the wounds onto the hoarfrost that coated the ground.

"Behind you!" Geralt shouted, and Lambert immediately ducked. The blade that would have pierced his heart passed harmlessly over his head. The rider stumbled forward—Geralt blasted him in the chest with Aard, and he was knocked flat on his back. Lambert whirled and plunged his sword through the rider's chest hard enough that it sank several inches into the frozen earth beneath him.

Lambert stood to see Geralt making quick work of the last of the party. He feinted left and then pirouetted when the rider moved to block him, his counter slicing neatly into the warrior's neck. Arterial blood followed the arc of Geralt's sword as the rider fell to the ground, clutching at his throat.

The broken halves of Yennefer’s medallion in Lambert's pocket hummed as the spell took effect once more. Save for the bodies on the ground, the clearing appeared to be empty once more.

"We have to keep moving," Geralt said urgently, and took off into the trees. Lambert followed hot on his heels, dodging through the underbrush. Beyond the assault, there was an unsettling, otherworldly feel to the woods that Lambert couldn't quite place. It took him a moment to realize that it was completely and utterly silent. All the animals, and even the insects, had fled before the Hunt.

The silence was broken by the low crack and rumble of a portal opening somewhere to his left. Lambert broke off, slowing his pace so that we was moving near-silently across the frozen ground. The crack was followed by a second, and then a third. Lambert could just see the portals through the trees, warriors stepping neatly out of them. A large party was amassing.

One stood three full heads taller than all the others. He was a Goliath of a man, broad-shouldered and menacing. In one hand he carried an enormous, solid shield of black metal. In the other, a staff with a blunt, rounded end. It looked as if it could pulverize flesh and shatter ribs with the slightest of effort.

"Geralt?" Lambert hissed urgently. "Come here! They're regrouping."

The low growl of Geralt's voice came from over Lambert's shoulder. "Mhm. See the commander? Name's Imlerlith. I remember him from back when I rode with the Hunt."

As Geralt spoke, the shimmering illusion that obscured him from view began to flicker. Lambert glanced down at himself to find that he was becoming visible as well. "Damnit," he cursed. "Spell's waning."

"We need Triss." Geralt pulled out his crossbow and loaded a bolt, lighting it with a spark of Igni. He fired directly upward—as it soared through the air, the flame at its tip burned through the darkness and fog of the artificial night.

Nothing happened.

Lambert glanced uneasily back at the fortress. Aside from the blinding glow that was Yennefer maintaining the protective dome, there was no sign of life from its walls. "What's with Merigold?"

"Shit," Geralt hissed vehemently. The heavy footsteps of the riders approached from the direction of the portals. The signal bolt had given away their position.

"Get ready." Lambert gritted his teeth. The footsteps quickened and then broke into a run as the party charged through the trees to engage them. Lambert met them halfway, dousing the leaders with a fountain of flames as he drew the sign of Igni. The fire glanced harmlessly off their armor, having done nothing but melt away the ice that coated the plating. " _Fuck,_ " he cursed, flinging his blade up to block the one that was swinging down on top of his head.

Lambert pushed the rider away, spinning and slashing at the one that approached him from his right. There were too many of them—the witchers were outnumbered five to one. It was all Lambert could do to block their advances; there was no room for him to riposte, no openings for him to counter. He spun and slashed and dodged, barely holding them off. He was pushed across the clearing, surrounded on all sides by enemies.

He found himself fighting back to back with Geralt, who was also barely holding his own against the attacking force. Every chance hit that happened to land was quickly returned by the injured rider. Every one that was pushed back was quickly replaced by three more. More portals opened up on all sides of them, riders in black armor stepping out of them and joining the fray. They were overwhelmed and about to be overrun.

Lambert snarled as he slashed at a rider's chest. If this was how he was going out, he was going to take as many of them with him as possible. He pirouetted, blade raised to strike at the next opponent—his eyes lit upon an orange glow from above—massive balls of fire, raining down right on top of their heads—

"Geralt!" he yelled, grabbing the other witcher by the shoulder and tackling him to the ground. He threw up his hand in the sign of Aard, encasing them both in a protective shield. Triss's fire thundered down on top of them, exploding as it hit the ground. The riders were decimated—everywhere around them, bodies were thrown backward. Flesh burned, armor melted. When the last of the flames died down, Lambert dropped the shield and stood.

"We have to head back!" Geralt shouted, running in the direction of the fortress. As they crossed the stream, he whistled. Their horses immediately came running, eyes wild with fear. Lambert met his mount and swung himself into the saddle without breaking stride, urging it to a gallop.

The dome of the silver shield that protected the fortress was shrinking. The barrier raced inward, ice eating up the ground behind them as they rode hard for the main gate. "Yennefer's spell is waning!" Lambert shouted forward to Geralt. "Blizzard's almost at the fortress!"

All around them, riders of the Hunt emerged from the trees. Triss's fire rained down on the forest, orbs exploding mere inches from his horse's hooves. He urged it onward, riding like hell through the storm of fire and ice.

"You think it took him out?" Lambert yelled.

"Imlerith?" Geralt called back over his shoulder. "Doubt it!"

The drab stone walls of the fortress rose up to meet them, and for once Lambert was glad for the sight. The witchers rode into the courtyard and slid from their saddles. Some of the Hunt had already made it inside the walls—Vesemir was engaging a rider up on the battlements. "Large detachment approaching from the woods," he yelled down as he blocked a blow from his opponent's war hammer. "We need to close the gate before they get inside!"

"Go, Geralt," Lambert said. "I'll keep them off your back."

The older witcher nodded and ran off. Above, Vesemir slashed into the chest of the rider he was fighting. The warrior fell to his knees—Vesemir planted a boot on his chest and kicked him off the high wall. There was a dull thud several seconds later as his body struck the ground.

Six riders of the Hunt converged on Lambert. He drew the sign of Aard and threw two of them backward, whirling to strike at one of the four who remained. His sword glanced off their armor. One of them swung a war hammer down on him—he rolled and dodged to the right. It slammed into the cobblestone where he'd been standing moments before, splintering it. Lambert regained his footing and lunged, managing to sink the tip of his blade into the flank of one of the riders.

The warrior turned and brought down his sword on Lambert like a hammer. Lambert brought up his own to block but only managed to deflect the blade, rather than arresting it—the blow threw him off balance, he staggered back—

The rider struck again. Lambert managed to block, but the force of it knocked him on his back—he scrambled back across the stone, trying desperately to gain the distance he needed to get back to his feet as the riders converged on him—

Suddenly, with yells of surprise, all six of his assailants were thrown into the air. They hovered there, limbs flailing like overturned beetles. Lambert looked up to see Keira Metz standing on the parapet above him. She grinned.

"Azar! Anatha! Velos!" Keira flung her hands outward, and the riders slammed against the unyielding walls of the courtyard hard enough to pulverize bone. Lambert distinctly heard their necks snap and skulls shatter. They tumbled to the ground, tangled heaps of useless flesh and armor.

"Holy shit," he wheezed, getting to his feet. "That was amazing. Thanks."

"You'd never have managed without me, would you?" she said coyly. "Come now, admit it."

Lambert found himself grinning. He had to admit, there was something about that kind of power that was deeply appealing. Suddenly he could almost understand what Geralt saw in those sorceresses—

"Damnit, Lambert, stay with us!" Vesemir shouted from above. Icy wind began to blow over the walls of the fortress, coating everything it touched with thick rime. "Yennefer's strength is waning! We've got to pull back!"

All those in the outer courtyard abandoned their posts and ran for the gate. As he turned to run, Lambert saw Keira step through a portal and vanish.

The majority of the group reached the gate at the same time. “Heads up!” Vesemir yelled as he reached the busted ballista. The fighters dove out of the way as Vesemir brought a mallet down hard on the firing mechanism. Lambert could hear the screech and grind of the rusty gears being forced to turn—against all odds, the relic of a war engine managed to fling a single bolt that buried itself deep in the arch of stone that was the top of the gate.

The ancient rock and crumbling mortar were no match for that kind of force. The gate collapsed, chunks of rock making the entrance entirely impassible. Lambert grimaced. It would buy them time, but not much.

“We have to keep moving,” Vesemir said. “Keep falling back—main gate! Now!” Navigator portals opened up left and right around them as they grouped up with the fighters who had been stationed in this section of the courtyard and ran for the solid oak of the main gate.

“How did you fare out in the woods?” Roche asked of Lambert, falling into step beside him.

“Took out a few groups of riders but missed their commander,” Lambert replied. “Almost fell into those pits of yours. Lucky we made it back at all.” He shot the Temerian a dirty look.

Roche chuckled. “That means we dug them well.” He clapped Lambert on the back and kept moving.

The enormous oak doors of the main gate stood stubbornly closed in front of them. “Where’s Eskel?” Geralt said urgently, glancing over his shoulder at the riders that were amassing behind them.

“Damnit,” Vesemir cursed. “We agreed he’d open that gate.”

“Hasn’t done it yet…that means—”

“He’ll be fine,” Vesemir cut him off. “Where’s Triss? She should have been with us.”

“There!” Lambert pointed to the left of the gate, where balls of flame peppered the crumbling stone of the keep.

“Shit. Come on, she needs help!” Geralt took off at a run. Lambert and Hjalmar an Craite followed close on his heels.

Merigold was surrounded on all sides by riders of the Hunt, riders pouring out of the open navigator portals on either side of her like rats from a sewer grate. Lambert pulled a dimeritium bomb from his belt as he ran, lobbing it at the far portal as hard as he could. He threw down the sign of Yrden as he passed the near portal, a circle of crackling purple energy engraving itself upon the ground. Both rifts collapsed in an explosion of green light.

Where Lambert's Igni had failed in the woods to harm the riders, Merigold's fire was proving more than effective. She threw orbs of fire the size of his head at the riders who surrounded her; they stuck where they landed like globs of magma, melting the warriors' icy armor and searing the flesh underneath. She blasted one of them in the face as the witchers reached her—with a strangled yell that rose in pitch and then suddenly stopped, he fell to the ground.

With the trademark bravery bordering on foolishness that Skelligans were known for, Hjalmar an Craite charged ahead of the rescue party and practically threw himself at the nearest rider, tackling him to the ground. Straddling the wraith's chest, he lifted his axe up high over his head and brought it down with all the force he could muster, splitting the rider's head in half like he was chopping wood for a fire. He spat as he got up.

Geralt and Lambert dove into the fray, fighting back to back with Merigold sandwiched between them. They ducked, slashed, and spun, each mirroring the movements of the other—Merigold used the gaps in their attacks to continue launching her fireballs at the riders, managing to torch at least three more in the short time it took the witchers to eliminate the rest of her attackers.

"Everything alright?" Geralt asked, sheathing his sword as the last of the riders fell to the ground dying.

"Yes, thanks—" Triss said, sounding slightly out of breath. "Things were looking shaky."

"We had to fall back," Vesemir interjected. "They tried to get in through the main gate. I'm afraid they could succeed next time."

Triss made an expression of dismay and looked up to the battlements above her. Lambert knew he shouldn't have been surprised to see Ciri standing there, sword in hand—she'd never been one for following orders.

"What's with Eskel?" Triss said. "We have to retreat!"

"He's in trouble! I'm going to help him!" Ciri cried.

"Go then, child!" Vesemir waved his arm. Ciri nodded, took one step, and vanished in a flash of green light.

Lambert's eyes widened. He'd known Ciri had powers—her Elder Blood was indisputable proof of that. But he hadn’t seen them demonstrated in so visceral a fashion. He'd never seen anything quite like it. This was different from the visions she'd had as a child when she still lived with the witchers at Kaer Morhen. It was something more. The way she moved from place to place, seeming to step between the threads of time and space and emerge somewhere else in the same instant—not even the most powerful of sorceresses could do that. It wasn't teleportation; not as he saw it, at least. At once he understood why Eredin was so desperate to get his hands on Ciri. And how deeply, gravely important it was that he never did.

"Fall back to the gate!" Vesemir cried, and the rescue party made their way back to rejoin with the rest of the fighters. Lambert could see and feel the black-and-blue light and rumble of the navigator portals that had opened below in the courtyard. He could hear the crash of their heavy metal boots on the cobblestones as they made their way up the slope toward the gate the entourage had their backs pressed against.

He gritted his teeth and held his sword at the ready, casting the sign of Quen on himself. They were cornered, pinned against the gate like hunted animals. If Eskel didn't open it, or if Ciri was too late to help him, they were doomed. There was no way out.

The first of the group of advancing riders reached them and was immediately decimated by a combination of Merigold's fire and explosive gas that the druid Ermion raised from a rift in the ground. The heat that the resultant explosion gave off made the frosty air crackle and pop. Lambert's throat seared with the sudden heat and then froze with the resurgence of ice in the next breath he sucked in.

The riders threw themselves upon the group of fighters, picked off slowly one-by-one by the witchers and their allies as they attacked. Hjalmar drove his axe into the skull of foe after foe—Roche proved himself quite skilled with a blade, eviscerating another—Triss and Ermion combined their skills to burn more than one from the inside out—Geralt and Lambert's silver sang as it plunged into the throats of the wraiths—

Though they were holding their own against the rising tide of foes, none of them could maintain this position for long. They were being pushed ever further back against the hard wall of the closed gate; eventually one of them would tire, or slip up, and they would be overrun.

A war horn blew in the distance, low and loud, and the riders suddenly retreated. With a creak and a groan, the heavy gates swung inward. The fighters darted inside to find Ciri standing with a satisfied expression on her face. Eskel stood beside her, clutching at his stomach with one hand and holding his sword in a white-knuckled grip in the other. His scarred lips were drawn tight, his face uncharacteristically pale.

“You’re not supposed to be out here!” Geralt scolded Ciri.

“Too late now,” she said defiantly. Geralt sighed in exasperation.

Eskel stumbled and fell to his knees. Lambert ran to his side, throwing Eskel’s arm over his shoulder and pulling him to his feet. “Come on, buddy, we have to keep moving.”

“Caranthir,” Eskel wheezed. He pulled his gloved hand away from his stomach. Blood seeped from several wicked puncture wounds. It looked as if he’d been hit with a barbed mace.

“Where?” Geralt growled.

Eskel shoot his head. “Ciri chased him off.” It looked as if every word caused him great pain. “Think they’re under orders not to touch her.”

“Shut up, you’re making it worse,” Lambert said, fumbling at his belt and pockets. Urgency made his fingers fat and clumsy—it felt like an eternity before they finally closed around the vial he was looking for. He bit the cork and pulled it from the neck, raising the glass to Eskel’s lips. “White Raffard’s Decoction. Drink.”

Eskel did, and immediately his breathing eased and the flow of blood from his wounds staunched. “Thanks,” he gasped, throwing the glass to the ground.

“Don’t mention it.”

“They’re coming in through the gaps!” Vesemir yelled from some distance away.

“Come on, Eskel, break’s over!” Lambert slapped him on the back and rushed back into the fray, heading for the nearest rift. Portals opened left and right. Lambert threw bombs as he ran, focusing on trying to close the portals before dealing with the riders. If too many got into the inner courtyard, it was all over. They were going to be swarmed.

He ran out of dimeritium more quickly than expected. He cursed as his fumbling fingers met with nothing. He ducked the swing of a war hammer and slid until he was almost underneath the portal, throwing down the sign of Yrden and collapsing it. It vanished.

“Lambert!” Keira shouted from somewhere nearby. Lambert wheeled around to find a blade poised inches from his face, its owner frozen in place with magical bonds. Without hesitation, he plunged his sword through the rider’s heart and kicked him backward.

“Thanks,” he said, nodding.

“That’s two favors you owe me now.” She grinned.

“Think you can do that again?”

Keira brushed her hair delicately over her shoulder. “Darling, I can do this all day.”

“Stay close to me, then.” Lambert made for the next portal, dodging past the hound that had emerged from it and using the sign of Yrden once more. He grimaced. So many signs in such a short period of time was draining. Witchers weren’t like sorceresses. He had a limited pool of energy to draw from. The well was almost dried up.

Keira raised her arms, and the hound was lifted into the air. It floated several feet off the ground, legs flailing wildly as if it were trying to swim. Lambert swung his sword high and gutted it—its innards fell to the ground with a wet noise and steamed in the icy air.

He kept moving, engaging the nearest rider. He thrust his sword through the wraith’s back—he fell to his knees—Lambert swung the blade, hard, and severed his head.

On the battlements above, Merigold stood, hurling fire down on the enemies that were amassing in the outer courtyard. Flames rained from her fingertips, her face an equally fiery snarl, her eyes narrowed in concentration. It looked as if keeping this up for so long was taking a great toll on her.

“I can’t hold them much longer!” She yelled down. “They’re swarming the yard by the main gate!”

Before she’d even finished speaking, there was a bang against the solid wood of the gate. Hard. Loud. Ominous. The sound came again. And again. The gate creaked and shook under the force of the blows.

“Bastard’s breaking through!” Lambert shouted to the others, steeling himself for the final push. If they didn’t hold this ground, they died. Every last one of them. And all of this would have been for naught. Geralt and Eskel materialized at his side, swords held at the ready. Three brothers, forged in fire, ready to face the end of the world.

Wind howled on the other side of the gate, ice crystals forming and racing their way across the ancient wood as the King of the Hunt beat it down from the other side. Lambert glanced skyward—Yennefer’s protective dome had shrunk considerably. It barely enclosed the small inner courtyard where they were to make their last stand.

A terrible scream, and the light at the top of the fortress went out. The shield collapsed, the silver barrier dissolving. The blizzard had arrived at the castle doors.

Ice wind blew around the edges of the gate, cutting Lambert’s skin like knives. Hoarfrost raced across the cobblestones beneath their feet. The banging at the gate grew louder, more insistent, wood splintering under the force of the blows. Aiden’s medallion beat a staccato tattoo against Lambert’s breastbone. He gritted his teeth and braced himself for what was certain to be the end.

The gate shook, wind surging until it seemed the force of it would move the very stones beneath their feet, and burst open.

Frost, deadening frost, ice that raced across the earth to claim everything it touched. The witchers stumbled back, trying to shield their faces from the barbed crystals, their boots freezing to the cobblestones where they stood. The ice climbed their legs, froze their hips, consumed their arms.

When the wind at last abated, the entire courtyard was encased in crystal. Lambert was rooted to the ground, unable to move even a muscle. A deadly silence fell over all.

The only sound that rang out through the stillness was that of metal boots on icy ground. Lambert could see only Eredin’s legs as the King of the Hunt entered the courtyard, walking past the frozen witchers as if passing by columns of stone.

Though muffled through the ice, Lambert’s could just make out Vesemir’s voice. And Ciri’s—the old man must have saved her somehow from the freezing wind. A loud clang of silver against steel, Ciri’s shriek—it was over, it had to be over. They’d failed.

More clanging. The low rumble of a portal. Vesemir’s shout, rapidly changing from one of anger to one of pain. “Run!” he gasped out.

A deep, grating voice, one that caused an intense feeling of dread somewhere in the pit of Lambert’s stomach. “She’ll not abandon you. You humans are so…impractical.”

“Ciri, no!” Vesemir cried. Lambert heard the clatter of a sword dropping to the ground. “I forbid you!”

Footsteps across the frozen ground.

The singing sound of a blade being drawn. The squelch of metal slicing into flesh. The crack of bone snapping. The unmistakable sound of a body falling lifelessly to the ground.

“No!” Ciri screamed. “No!”

Lambert’s mind raced to find an explanation—any explanation—other than what he already knew was true. His ears strained for any hint of Vesemir’s voice. For the sound of the old man’s footsteps on the cobblestones. Something. Anything.

Nothing came.

Unable to move, trapped in the confines of his own mind, Lambert screamed. Not again. He couldn’t do this again. He screamed, unable to make a sound, unable even to shed a tear. He screamed until it drowned out all thought, all sound of what was happening in the world outside his icy prison.

A shrill wail pierced Lambert’s ears, and for a half-instant he wondered if the force of his pain had somehow managed to manifest itself in reality. The sound rose in pitch, and he suddenly recognized it as Ciri, though he’d never heard her make a noise like this—it rose to a painful pitch and a volume that seemed to shake the stones beneath his feet themselves, echoing back everything that Lambert felt in his heart from every stone and wall.

The fortress shook. Loose rock and the corpses of riders tumbled by Lambert’s feet, being sucked inward toward the epicenter of the magical disturbance. The entire courtyard was awash in a glow of sickly green light. The sound of Ciri’s scream only grew louder and louder, rising to a volume that should have been humanly impossible.

The force of the wind tore at Lambert’s clothes, trying to pull him inward. Chunks of ice broke free of his form and shattered. A searing pain tore through his head as both his eardrums ruptured from the force of the sound, hot blood trickling from his ears.

A deep voice cut through the inhuman wail, one that Lambert barely recognized. The voice thrummed with magic, taking on the otherworldly quality Yennefer’s did when she cast a particularly powerful spell. “Gvaed, gvaed uncym, cym’morth!”

All fell silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, this chapter overlaps quite a significant chunk of canon events. Credit where it's due to CDPR for a handful of dialogue snippets.


	24. Father and Son

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion) as always for the beta!

Lambert was numb.

Even if it wasn’t entirely true that the witcher mutations stripped them all of emotion, it was hard to feel anything in the wake of everything that had been lost. There was nothing left. He was used up. In the wake Ciri’s scream there was only piercing silence.

Geralt had carried Vesemir’s body inside, laid it down in a place of honor somewhere quiet while they made preparations for the funeral. The White Wolf cradled his mentor’s body like that of a child. As Vesemir had once carried Geralt, now Geralt carried him.

An all-encompassing stillness seemed to hang over the corner of the hall where his body lay. Ciri never once left his side, holding his hand and gently stroking his hair as if he were simply ill and might open his eyes at any moment. Lambert couldn’t bear to watch. He avoided coming near, as if something lurked in the shadows that would reach out and suck him down into a despair he would never recover from.

Eskel eventually came and sat beside Ciri, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. As Lambert walked past, venturing out into the still-frozen woods beside Geralt to go in search of wood for a pyre, he caught a glimpse of the other witcher’s scarred face. It was streaked through with tears. Lambert faintly realized that this was the most emotion he’d ever seen Eskel express over anything. The man was a stone; resolute, immovable. It had taken the weight of a mountain to finally break him.

Stacking the logs was a mechanical task. It occupied Lambert’s hands, but not his thoughts. He went through the motions like a ghost, remembering the last pyre he’d built. With every log placed, every bit of dried grass stuffed into gaps to make the flames catch more easily, he was transported back to that quiet hill in Ellander where Aiden had found his final rest. To the multitude of stars bearing witness overhead. The whisper of the wind through the trees overhead. The crinkle of parchment under his blood-stained fingertips.

He vaguely realized that Geralt was speaking to him. He looked up, blinking. “Hmm?”

“Sun will be setting soon. We should gather the others.”

Lambert nodded, numbly sliding the last log into place. He followed Geralt back to the keep automatically, clinging to his brother’s coat-tails because he didn’t know what else to do. What was there to be done? It was over. What little was left of Kaer Morhen would surely crumble and fall to dust. Vesemir was the mortar that had held it together.

Those who remained had gathered in the kitchen, sitting scattered on benches and chairs—some drinking, some staring blankly into the fire, none speaking. Merigold was bent over Zoltan, glowing fingers hovering over a deep cut in his temple. Flesh closed and knit back together under her touch.

All those present looked to Geralt. “It’s time,” he said simply.

As one, they rose and followed behind the witchers as they headed back toward the entrance. Geralt walked to where Eskel sat beside Ciri and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. Eskel looked up, nodded, and picked up Vesemir’s body. Geralt took a torch from its sconce and followed behind him, leading the procession out to the spot they’d chosen.

They’d built the pyre on a cliff side, just on the other side of the fortress walls. Vesemir would have wanted to be buried close to home. None would disturb him here. The spot looked out upon the valley, facing to the southeast. The sun would rise each morning and bathe his gravestone with golden light. It was the best they could do. It somehow still felt like it wasn’t enough.

Eskel laid Vesemir down gently on top of the pyre. He arranged Vesemir’s arms carefully so that they were crossed over his chest, and placed his steel sword in his grip. He stood there for a moment, looking out over the darkened valley, silent.

Eskel bowed his head, pressing a fist to his heart. He reached out and placed the same hand over Vesemir’s for an instant, eyes closed. Then he backed away, taking his place beside Geralt.

Ciri stepped forward, grasping a tiny bouquet of wildflowers in one fist. She tucked them gently under Vesemir’s hand and smoothed his hair away from his face. After a moment of hesitation, she bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Goodbye,” she said in a choked whisper. “I’m sorry.”

She stepped back, rejoining the circle of silent friends standing vigil. Geralt approached the pyre, torch raised high. He hesitated for a moment, looking as if he wanted to say something, but was struggling with himself.

“Vesemir was my father,” he said finally. “Not by blood, but he raised me from an infant. Though he may not have always made the right decisions, everything he ever did was for us. To protect us. To keep our family together.” He swallowed painfully. “I stood beside Vesemir on many nights like this, standing vigil for the fallen. Tonight, we light the way for him.”

Geralt lit the bundles of dried grass that were stuffed between the logs and bowed his head. The flames took immediately, racing across the wood. He stepped back from the pyre, resuming his place beside Ciri. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself,” he said quietly. “No witcher’s ever died in his own bed.”

Lambert’s mouth twisted. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat.

“You don’t know how it is,” Ciri murmured. “To see someone you love die, because of you…for you…”

Lambert made a fist and clenched his teeth. Tried desperately not to let himself be dragged back to that moment on the hill outside Ellander.

“We all knew what we were signing up for.”

“Yes, and you saved me,” Ciri replied bitterly. “For how long? A week? A month?”

“We’ll hide you. Cover your tracks.”

“No.” She stared resolutely into the flames. “I will flee no more.” Ciri hesitated for a moment, then darted forward and snatched Vesemir’s medallion from the flames. She clenched it in her fist as she ran off into the darkness, leaving the pyre behind. Lambert raised an unconscious hand to his chest, to where Aiden’s medallion sat nestled against his heart.

Their numbers dwindled as the fire burned on, some of the stragglers making their way back to the castle as the frigid night air seeped into their bones. The three witchers remained, numb to the cold and the passage of time. They had to bear witness. It was their duty.

Eskel edged closer to Lambert as the night wore on. “I have something for you,” he said simply, pulling a silver sword from the sheath at his back and handing it to Lambert.

The metal glinted with the reflected light of the pyre. Its edges were sharp, honed to perfection; the blade oiled, the leather grip meticulously cared for. “Is this…?” Lambert managed to say. His vocal cords creaked and strained.

“Vesemir’s.” Eskel smiled sadly. “He wanted you to have it. Told me so, last year. Think he meant it as a reminder—that some things are worth fighting for.”

Lambert wrapped his hand around the hilt. It fit perfectly in his palm. He trailed his fingers across the metal with reverence. This blade was older than him by decades, if not centuries. It had served its owner well. Why Vesemir would have thought he deserved to have it, after all the bad blood between them over the years, was difficult for him to understand.

“He never gave up on you,” Eskel said, as if he could read Lambert’s mind. “I think he always hoped that one day your anger would cool and you’d come back to the fold. You were his son, just as much as the rest of us.”

Lambert nodded in acknowledgment, gripping the sword tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat as he stared into the flames. Even after all he’d done, all he’d said. Vesemir had…

He couldn’t finish the thought.

The trio stood watch on the darkened cliff side until the fire burned down to ashes, no further words spoken save the whisper of the wind through the trees.

~~~~~~

The air in the fortress was somber, a stagnant weight that bore down heavily on all of their shoulders. Several of the fighters departed as soon as the pyre had gone to embers, returning to urgent matters or simply eager to flee the site of the battle. Ermion and Hjalmar an Craite returned to Skellige, Roche and Ves to their sad corner of what had once been Temeria. Zoltan to Novigrad, in his words “to make sure Dandelion hasn’t gotten himself strung up by his ankles while I’ve been gone.”

Avallac’h whisked Ciri away to his tower room, not sparing her a moment to grieve. Judging by the muffled explosions and frustrated yelling that drifted down the staircase, things were not going well.

Eskel kept to himself, venturing out into the woods before the sun rose and returning late in the day with a deer or some rabbits slung across his saddle. He’d retreated inward, as he always did. Geralt and Yennefer seemed to be plotting their next move, arguing in hushed whispers by the fire. Keira and Triss appeared to be plotting something else, pacing along the outer walls together in the fading grey daylight. For the first time in a long time, the torches lining the walls of the fortress remained dark.

With nothing else for him to do, Lambert sat alone at a table in the kitchen and drank. He polished Vesemir’s sword. He even got out a whetstone and a rag and cleaned his own, something he’d been neglecting of late. It felt disrespectful to have a filthy sword in his scabbard next to Vesemir’s lovingly tended to silver. There wasn’t much he could do to honor the old man’s memory, but at least it was something.

His own words echoed back at him through months of distance. _"Open your fucking eyes, Vesemir! This place is fucking miserable. It's time to cut our losses and leave. There's nothing here worth saving."_

Perhaps that hadn’t been entirely true at the time he’d said it, but it sure as shit was now. The older witcher had been the string that held all of them together. Without him, there was nothing tying them to this place. Even Eskel was planning on abandoning the fortress.

Someone sat on the bench across from him, the sound of its legs scraping across the stone floor startling Lambert out of his thoughts. He looked up to find Ciri with her head in her hands, sniffling as she tried ineffectually to wipe her eyes. Her face was streaked with the kohl that had been smudged around them. She’d yet to wash away the dirt and grime of the battle.

“I never knew it was so hard,” she said. “To lose someone you care for so deeply. I don’t know what to do. I can’t control my powers. Avallac’h says I just have to focus my intention. But how can I concentrate when all I feel is…”

“Empty.” Lambert said grimly. “Like the sun will never shine again.”

Ciri looked up, face stricken. “So you feel it too.”

“We all do.” He took a deep draught from his mug.

“How do you go on? What am I supposed to do?”

“Take it from me, it never gets easier.” Lambert sighed. “It never goes away. You carry your pain with you the rest of your life.” The weight of the silver chains around his neck was suddenly more than he could bear.

“Then what’s the point of it all?” Ciri grasped at Vesemir’s medallion, which hung around her own.

“Still trying to figure that out myself.” Lambert reached into the neck of his armor and pulled out Aiden’s medallion. Ciri’s eyes widened. “Best you can do is try to honor his memory. To live a life he would have been proud of.” He tucked it safely away under his shirt. “I’m still working on that part.”

Ciri wiped her eyes, sniffling. Lambert fumbled for something to break the silence.

“You should really be talking to Geralt about this stuff. I’m no good at cheering people up. You may not have noticed, but I have kind of a reputation for being a sourpuss.”

Ciri sighed. “I dunno, I feel a bit…less alone. Thank you.”

She rose and hugged him around his shoulders, bending down and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. As she left the kitchen and walked off into the depths of the fortress, her step sounded ever-so-slightly lighter.

Lambert raised his tankard to his lips and allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week will be the final chapter of Lambert's adventure! This one was on the shorter side, but I felt like it needed to be. Our poor witcher family :(


	25. Something Ends, Something Begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An enormous thank you to [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion/) for the amazing work they've done betaing this fic, and for listening to me ramble about all the ways I'd like to whump Lambert at all hours of the day and night. They're the true hero here.

Geralt and his retinue were set to depart the next night. None wished to remain in the ashes of what had been lost. 

Yennefer and Triss were the first to leave, traveling directly to Novigrad to attempt to reestablish contact with the remaining sorceresses of the Lodge. From what Lambert could understand, Ciri was aiming to take the fight to Eredin. He had to commend her on that point. The girl had fire. He couldn’t help but be proud.

It was dusk when the sorceresses departed. Triss pulled Lambert aside, along with Eskel and Geralt, and led them up to one of the battlements overlooking the lower courtyard.

“I know it isn’t much,” she said with a sad smile, “But I’ve taken the liberty of casting a bit of magic here. Something to honor his memory.”

Lambert’s throat felt tight.

Triss gestured over the ramparts toward the valley below. The witchers stood side by side, overlooking the still-icy river and listening to the slow drip of melting frost from the trees as the sun slipped below the horizon.

As the last light faded, Lambert’s medallions gave off a soft hum. One by one, the torches and braziers lining the walls of the fortress sputtered to life. Lambert clenched his teeth. If he squinted his eyes just so, he could almost imagine that Vesemir was walking the walls as he’d always done. His duty would be kept even in death.

“Thank you, Triss,” Geralt murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder. “We…this means a lot.”

“He would have liked it,” Eskel chimed in. “It’ll be like he’s still taking care of the place, at least until the spell wanes.”

“It should last for many years yet.” Triss smiled wanly. “I should go. Yennefer’s already in Novigrad. She’ll be cross if I lag too far behind.” She gave Geralt a hasty embrace. “See you when you get there. Eskel, Lambert—take care.”

She raised her hands over her head, and with a crack and a low rumble a portal opened a few feet in front of them. With one last parting glance over her shoulder, Triss walked through it and vanished.

~~~~~~

Nightfall found Lambert in one of the long-forgotten tower rooms, digging through a store of weapons and armor he’d stashed there long ago. He was trying to decide what to load onto his horse and what to abandon—when he left Kaer Morhen in the morning, he intended it to be for the last time. He was going to leave all the blood and ashes behind him and never look back.

It was easier said than done, though. He’d had decades to amass this collection of gear and curiosities, and now he had to haul all of it out on a single horse. His eyes raked over the razor edge of an old steel sword—it had been a gift, and the pommel was inlaid with bits of obsidian. It was far too fanciful for his own tastes; he’d rather the thing just be sharp as hell. He’d kept it more out of a sense of obligation than anything else.

His gaze lit upon a chip in the sword’s edge—deep, too deep to sharpen out. He couldn’t remember when it had happened, but there it was. That was enough to render the blade useless in his opinion. It clattered loudly to the stone floor as he tossed it aside.

“Tut tut. How wasteful,” a teasing voice came from behind him.

Lambert froze, stopping his hand, which was already halfway to the nearest blade. He looked over his shoulder to see Keira leaning idly against the door frame. How the hell had she snuck up on him?

“It’s broken,” he responded curtly. “Got no patience for useless things.”

“Nonsense.” Keira strode over to the discarded sword. She delicately picked it up and turned it over in her hands until she found the crack in its edge. A smile curled her lips.

“Bheith ina iomláine.” Her voice thrummed with power, the vibrations of her words echoing through Lambert’s medallions. The sword glowed briefly and then faded to its usual silver. Keira handed it back to Lambert with a pleased expression on her face. “There. I think you’ll find it’s better than new.”

Lambert ran his thumb delicately over the edge. She was right. It was sharp enough to split a hair, and there was no sign of wear anywhere on the metal. “What are you doing here?”

“What, no thank you?” Keira raised an eyebrow. “I was looking for you, of course.”

“Gonna tell me why, exactly?”

“I’ve a proposition for you.” She brushed her hair delicately over her shoulder. “We can discuss that later, though. I’m dying to freshen up. War is positively dreadful for the skin, you know.”

Lambert snorted. “Want a bath? You can go jump in the river like the rest of us. It’s refreshing this time of year, actually. Couple months ago you’d have frozen your tits off pretty much instantly.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She rolled her eyes at him. “I’ve a place I like to go. Care to join me? We can discuss the arrangement afterward.”

She extended a hand. Without knowing why, Lambert accepted it and allowed himself to be led out onto the balcony. Keira eyed a missing chunk of railing. “Hmm. Yes, this will do nicely.”

“Wait, what—?”

Keira lifted her hands over her head and threw them outward. A portal of roiling black flames formed in the air in front of them with a crack and a rumble. Before Lambert could process what was happening, he was being pulled out into the air—spinning, falling—

And landing rather ungracefully in a thicket of tall trees under a starry sky. Something told him this wasn’t the Continent. Everything was far too perfect, from the shade of the grass beneath his boots to the impeccably-placed fireflies that floated lazily along on the night breeze. In front of him, a winding path led up a flower-covered hillock toward a gazebo at its peak. Candles flickered every few feet along it, lighting the way.

“Son of a whore,” Lambert cursed. “You could’ve warned me.”

Keira seemed to have taken his profanity as a display of amazement. “Nice, isn’t it? Come.”

She wandered off up the path, leaving Lambert standing by himself, bewildered, in the moonlight. He cursed violently again, his words heard by no one save a pair of snow hares that hopped past.

Keira was waiting for him at the summit, sitting on the plank edge of the gazebo, which housed an enormous bathtub. Fragrant steam rose from the surface of the water, which was scattered with flower petals.

“What is this place?”

“I told you I fancied a bath. And not a frigid dip in your river, no matter how inviting your description made it seem.” She gestured widely. “Think of this as my private dressing-room. One must have some things that are sacred.”

Sorceresses. Lambert fought not to roll his eyes. Still, a hot bath did sound appealing, even if he had to deal with Keira’s inflated opinion of herself to enjoy it. He bent down and began tugging off his boots.

“That’s the spirit.” Keira grinned. She stood, looking at him with mischievous eyes, and snapped her fingers. Her clothes dissolved into nothingness with the aid of what in Lambert’s opinion was an extremely clever use of magic. She stood bare before him, save the ankh she wore on a beaded string around her neck.

“Do join me once you’ve finished, won’t you?” She vanished into the flickering candlelight of the gazebo with a splash and a flash of green eyes.

Lambert found himself smiling as he slid his gambeson from his shoulders and undid the ties on his trousers. He paused for a moment, his fingers probing uncertainly at the dual chains around his neck, but left them. He’d rather die than be separated from Aiden’s medallion, even for an instant. If that raised some uncomfortable questions, so be it. Keira would need something far more potent than her womanly charms to get those answers out of him.

Naked except for his medallions, Lambert stepped over the edge and eased into the sheltered water of the enormous bath. The water was perfect, as was everything else in this pocket dimension—hot almost to the point of discomfort, but not enough to scald, with waist-deep with drowsing ledges along its edges. It eased the aches from his muscles and the tension from his shoulders. He couldn’t tell how it was heated. It seemed safe to assume that everything here ran on magic.

He found Keira there, in the depths of the unreasonably large pool, pouring water over her head with a jug that seemed to be there for that purpose. She looked strikingly different like this—every trace of meticulously applied makeup was gone, and her wet hair was slicked back from her face. She looked…real. Like an actual person rather than the public face of a sorceress. Lambert could almost forget that she could squash him like a bug between her fingers if she really wanted to.

“Like what you see, witcher?” She asked coyly, and Lambert suddenly realized he’d been staring. She turned to face him, and his eyes slid down her body to her ample breasts, to the freckles that dotted her creamy skin here and there, to the slender curve of her waist where it vanished under the water.

“I can assure you I don’t bite,” she said, ripples spreading across the surface of the water between them as she drew closer. “Unless you want me to, that is.”

Keira was touching him now, the supple flesh of her thighs pressed against his own as she looked up into his golden eyes. She raised a hand, tracing the path of a water droplet as it carved its way along the path of a scar down his collarbone.

Lambert was suddenly very aware of how much tension he’d been carrying with him the last few weeks. His shoulders, the line of his jaw, his very thoughts were all drawn as taut as a bow-string. He couldn’t take much more. He was nearly at his breaking point.

And here Keira was, warm and willing, her essence thrumming with that same power he’d glimpsed during the battle. There was a not insignificant part of himself that wanted to taste it.

Before he’d processed making the decision to do so, Lambert was kissing her, one hand clasping the small of her back, the other reaching up to tangle in her wet golden hair. He could feel her smiling into the contact, her fingernails digging into the flesh of his collarbone as she opened her mouth against him and swirled her tongue over his. She tasted sweet, as if the blossoms floating on the surface of the bath had infused into her very being.

God, he’d missed being touched this way, he realized as Keira’s hand roamed lower and grabbed a fistful of his ass. Letting someone in past his armor, both physical and metaphorical, wasn’t something he did often. His cock throbbed against Keira’s thigh.

Lambert kissed his way down her neck, Keira tipping her head back and sighing as he sucked on the tender flesh there. He slid his hand down her back to the curve of her ass, grasping her thigh and lifting her leg up over his hip. Keira kissed him as she threw her arms around his neck, using the leverage to lift herself and wrap both legs around his waist.

She was hot against him, wet skin pressed tight to his scarred stomach. Lambert waded into deeper water, kissing a line down her neck to the curve of her breast. He sucked at her nipple, savoring the soft moan that fell from her lips and the way her thighs squeezed around him. He pulled back, making no effort to conceal a smirk, and did it again.

A light breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in the copse around them, making the candles lining the edge of the gazebo flicker. The coolness of it felt wonderful on his skin. Lambert carried Keira to the far edge of the pool, gazing out into the starry valley below.

He set her down gently on the ledge and knelt between her legs, now shoulder-deep in the steaming water. He dragged his lips down the smooth freckled skin of her stomach until he reached her inner thighs, relishing the way she sighed when he sucked on the tender skin there. He toyed with her a moment, inching ever closer to the warm wetness of her cunt without actually touching her, until she let out a sigh of frustration and seized him by his hair, pressing his lips against her.

The taste of her was faint, but still unmistakably there, and Lambert’s cock throbbed in response as he explored her with his tongue. Keira’s fists tightened in his hair, his work for once seeming to be satisfactory, as she let out a breathy moan. Her legs trembled on either side of Lambert’s head as he swirled his tongue over her.

“Yes, exactly like that, don’t stop—” she breathed. She was shaking in earnest as she looked down at him with those seaglass-green eyes, every trace of haughtiness gone from her face.

Lambert met her eyes and sucked, and then she was coming, her wordless exclamation of pleasure echoing out across the empty valley as her thighs spasmed. When Keira came back to herself a moment later, it was with a dazed grin.

She stood and pulled Lambert to his feet, guiding him to the drowsing ledge and gesturing for him to sit. His neglected cock was aching from the lack of stimulation, and as Keira climbed astride him it took an immense effort not to rut up against her in a display of pure physical need. It must have shown on his face, because she smirked and glanced down at it.

“Patience is a virtue,” she said in a mock chiding tone as she reached down, pressing one hand to Lambert’s chest to steady herself as she reached down for his cock with the other. With one smooth motion, she lined him up with her body and sank down against him.

Lambert couldn’t help thrusting this time. He gripped her hips with both hands and tipped his head back as his cock slid deep inside her, overwhelmed by the combined heat of the water and their two bodies. She rolled her hips against him and he nearly blacked out.

“Look at me,” Keira ordered, lifting his chin with her fingertips as she moved with him. It was as if a bolt of electricity shot through Lambert when he met her eyes. Power, raw power, seemed to flow through her every vessel. There was no telling what she could do with it. Keira smiled mischievously.

“I’ve always fancied dark-haired men,” she panted as he thrust up into her, using his grip on her hips to create more friction.

“Lucky I happened to be in the neighborhood,” Lambert joked through gritted teeth.

It surprised him in a way just how much he found he’d _needed_ this. There really wasn’t a substitute for a good fuck. All the tension, the frustration of the last few weeks came pouring out of him, lost in the heat and motion of their bodies. He was digging his fingers into Keira’s hips far too tight, but she hardly seemed to mind.

It was surreal, the difference between this moment and the circumstances surrounding it. The peaceful sound of the wind rustling the trees nearby. The warmth of Keira’s breath against his skin. The ripples spreading across the surface of the water. The flickering dance of the candlelight. He could almost forget the rest of his life.

Almost.

Lambert was slamming into her in earnest now, their motions becoming harder, more violent with each passing second. Keira’s muscles were squeezing around him tighter and tighter—Lambert dragged her down against him as he thrusted and heard her breath catch in her throat—

And she was coming, spasming around him, Lambert growing somewhere deep in his throat as he struggled to keep his rhythm, carrying her through it—

And as she collapsed against him, gasping for air, he found that he couldn’t—

He thrust up into her, once, twice, and was carried away on the tide of his orgasm, shaking as his fingers dug into her supple skin. When at last he came back to himself, he was leaned back with his head resting against the screened wall of the gazebo, his arms around Keira’s waist.

The next several minutes passed in relative silence, both of them being occupied with actually bathing themselves for the first time in a while. When Lambert at last finished scrubbing the last bits of grime from his hair, he let himself sink into the water up to his shoulders and closed his eyes. The heat worked its way into his muscles, coaxing out the soreness and tension left from the battle.

Being alone with his thoughts, no longer able to focus on his aching body as a distraction, wasn’t good. Guilt washed over him like a wave. The ashes of Aiden’s pyre were hardly cool and yet here he was, cavorting with a sorceress in some forgotten corner of the world. He was deeply and profoundly ashamed of himself. Even this expression of physical need felt like an insult to Aiden’s memory. He should have just stayed in the castle, sorting through broken swords. He should have—

“I’ve never known a witcher to carry two medallions,” Keira remarked, breaking the silence. “Surely there’s a story?”

Lambert’s hand reached unconsciously for the silver around his neck. “There is,” he said begrudgingly.

She looked back at him expectantly, wringing the water from her hair. It cascaded in drops down her neck, beads collecting at her collarbone.

For the first and perhaps the only time, Lambert almost felt as if he could tell it. Maybe it was the faint afterglow that still lingered despite his guilt; maybe it was simply the air in this magical clearing leagues away from anything he’d ever known. He sighed, gathering his thoughts as he ran his fingers along the engraved lines of the medallion, turning it over in his wet hands.

“It belonged to someone I loved,” he began. “Someone I should have protected. But I fucked everything up, like I always do. I ran when things got hard. Eventually I finally figured out what a mistake I’d made, tried to go back and make things right. But I was too late.”

Keira’s face betrayed no expression. “What was his name?”

“…Aiden.” Lambert clenched his fist around the medallion, feeling the familiar twinge in his heart. “His name was Aiden.”

He startled at the light touch of her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she said, meeting his eyes.

“Yeah. Me too.” Lambert sighed and let the medallion fall. “So. Was _this_ your proposition?” He raised an eyebrow at the gazebo and the fireflies that drifted past on the breeze.

“Don’t be ludicrous. I told you, I fancied a bath.” Keira resumed washing herself, pulling a sea sponge seemingly from nowhere and using it to lather her legs.

“Then what is, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Nothing sordid, I assure you.” She set the sponge aside and sat on the drowsing ledge beside him. “A few months ago, with Geralt’s help, I came into possession of some notes written by my deceased colleague Alexander. Prior to his death, Alexander had been doing research on the Catriona plague.” She sighed. “Lambert, I am trying to leave my past affiliations with the Lodge behind me. I think that, given time to study Alexander’s notes, I may be able to devise a cure for the Catriona and end the epidemic.”

“And then sell it for mountains of gold?”

“The monetary rewards are, of course, their own incentive.” She gave him a half-smile. “The only trouble is that my work requires ingredients that are difficult to procure, even for a sorceress. I can hardly go traipsing around the Novigrad sewers in search of a Zeugl. So, naturally, partnering with a witcher would make things much simpler.”

Lambert mulled things over in his head. It did make sense to accept Keira’s offer and set out with her, helping her to procure whatever monster ingredients she needed. It wasn’t as if he had other plans. If he was being honest with himself, he’d been pretty sure he’d die during the battle with the Hunt along with everyone else.

“So how exactly does _this_ play into the arrangement?” He gestured at the two of them.

“It doesn’t, unless you want it to.” Keira looked away from him, examining her fingernails. “Despite what others might have you believe, I’m no stranger to the blood and mess of war, nor to the death and destruction it leaves in its wake. I was once advisor to King Foltest. I fought on the hill at Sodden. I’ve seen more death than I’d ever cared to in my lifetime. And sometimes…sometimes when all is said and done, and you can finally wash the dirt from your skin, what you really need is a good fuck. Something to make you feel alive again.”

Lambert found himself nodding in agreement. That he could understand, at least.

“Lambert, you should know that I’m not interested in commitment in the slightest. I’ve my own agendas, and they’re rarely compatible with those of others. But, if you’re amenable…” She waved her hands vaguely. “There may be other times like this.”

“Anything else I should know, before I accept?”

Keira smirked. “Oh, yes. I’m terrified of rats.”

~~~~~~

Dawn broke over a nearly silent Kaer Morhen the next day. Geralt and Ciri had apparently departed sometime during the night, judging by the dew covering the prints their horses had left in the courtyard. Avallac’h, too, was nowhere to be found. Lambert found himself not caring in the slightest where the sage had gone. He sure as hell wasn’t going to miss his cryptic sayings and looks of disdain.

In the end, Lambert, Keira, and Eskel were the final occupants of the castle. By sundown, it would be truly abandoned. After a simple breakfast, Lambert and Eskel busied themselves loading their horses with the possessions they cared to salvage. Lambert’s saddlebags sagged under the weight of his gear; several sets of old armor, a few runed swords, and as many potions and bottles of vodka as he could carry.

“Where are you headed?” he asked Eskel as he tightened the leather straps around his horse’s belly.

“South, probably. Find somewhere warm to ride out the next winter. Who knows, I might even end up in Toussaint. Heard a lot of talk, but I’ve never actually been. You?”

“Nazair. I’m gonna help Keira with a project of hers.”

Eskel smirked. “A project, huh?”

“Yes, wiseass. Don’t make me regret being nice to you.” Lambert stood and stretched his back.

“Sorry to interrupt what seems like a lovely chat,” Keira’s voice called down from above, “But I’m leaving.”

Lambert abandoned his attempts to secure his saddlebags and met her as she descended the ramp into the lower courtyard.

“Are you quite certain you don’t want to accompany me through the portal? It would be faster, you know.” She raised an eyebrow at his laden-down horse.

“Yeah, I know. But I can’t bring all of this with me through a portal. And I’m sure as shit not coming back for it later.”

Keira shrugged. “Have it your way. I shall see you in a few weeks in Nazair, then. Do try your best not to get yourself eaten along the way.”

“Wouldn’t worry about that one,” Eskel called up from the stable. “Lambert’s so prickly, whatever was trying to chew on him would just spit him right back out.”

Keira smirked at that. “Don’t take too long,” she murmured in Lambert’s ear. She winked at him and turned, throwing her hands outward as a portal exploded to life in front of her. The roiling black flames of the void swallowed her up as she stepped forward, and then there was nothing.

“Something going on with you two?” Eskel prodded as Lambert returned to his task.

“Not what you think,” Lambert retorted, fumbling with a buckle. “I’m helping Keira with a project. Not in much of a mood to slay drowners after everything that’s happened.”

“If you say so,” Eskel said with that infuriatingly knowing smile of his. “I’m all set to ride out. Anything else you want to do before we leave?”

Lambert turned and looked back at the crumbling keep; its stone now marred not only with time but with the ice and steel of the Hunt’s blades. At the splintered gates and piles of rubble. At the sun that was making a valiant effort to shine through the clouds that clustered overhead.

“No,” he said after a moment. “It’s time.”

He and Eskel mounted their horses, riding one after the other across the wooden drawbridge and down the path carved into the mountainside. As the keep faded into the distance behind him, Lambert felt a certain bittersweetness in his chest. Since Vesemir had first brought him to the keep, he’d been fighting to leave. It was all that he’d wanted.

But he hadn’t wanted it like this. War. Terror. His brethren slain. Too many graves over the years to count. The Path had not been kind to him. It never had been.

Perhaps, he thought as he rode alongside Eskel with the sun warming his back, it was time for him to forge a new one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~The End~
> 
> This has been a journey, and I'm very sad to see it end. I started writing this story in May 2018, and it was the very first fanfic I ever worked on. Through this story, I've connected with amazing people here and in the fandom and on the [r/FanFiction Discord server](https://discord.gg/P6ZdBu2) (which is a lovely, supportive community for fanfic readers and writers that I cannot praise enough--I'd love to connect with you there if you happen to join). Thank you to everyone who read and commented along the way. Your feedback means more to me than I can say 💙
> 
> Secondly, **NEWS!**
> 
> This isn't the end of Lambert's story. I've already planned out a sequel (which could honestly be read as a standalone, although since you're reading this note on the last chapter of this story that probably doesn't matter), and will begin working on it very shortly. Be on the lookout for a certain merchant of mirrors. ;)
> 
> I also have plans for a series of 8 smutty one-shots featuring Lambert and Aiden to be posted throughout the year. [One is already up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17620349); the next should be posted March 20. Keep your eye out for more!
> 
> If you're into femslash, I have [an ever-growing series of smutty one-shots](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1283120) featuring Cerys an Craite and Jutta an Dimun (the Iron Maiden). I also post the occasional rarepair smut, like [this one featuring Madame Sasha and Eveline Gallo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17865038).
> 
> In other fandoms--I'm also working on some content for Skyrim, I have plans for some future stuff in Marvel for Spider-Man and Kamala Khan, and I have a chaptered work for Detroit: Become Human coming up! Stay tuned :)
> 
> Thank you once more to everyone who read. I can't express how much you sharing this journey means to me 💙
> 
> UPDATE 4/29/19: The first installment of the sequel is live! I've linked it to this fic via a series :)


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